Mr Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition
by Curlycurlz
Summary: It started with Prince Eric's pecs and it ended with Tarzan's iron thighs. 90s-era Disney was a last bastion of masculine perfection, and now they're going to celebrate it with the first-ever, 4-day-long Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant!
1. Orientation Breakfast

_Please don't take this story seriously. I wrote it as a loving tribute to those who defined my childhood and yours, and who ruined our perceptions of men for the rest of our lives._

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The parking lot buzzed with the revving of engines, the crunching of gravel, the clatter of dolly wheels and the shouts of bellhops and valets. The sparkling sliding doors of the imposing Evafta Hotel and Convention Center hummed inward and outward, jerking and halting like cautious meerkats as trunks, garment bags, and slickly dressed managers flowed through them into the magnificent atrium. The citizens of the town of Yesdin stared through their car windows at the spectacle. The first annual Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition was, after so many years of planning, about to begin.

* * *

At 9:55, exactly five minutes before the orientation breakfast was to start, an East Asian man in ceremonial Han Chinese military attire stalked through the door to the Ochre Room. Several pageant assistants milled about the stage, checking sound equipment, and he was left quite to his own devices. Calmly, he surveyed the large round table around which the twelve contestants would sit. He placed his helmet decisively on the chair that would allow him the most advantageous view of the room and resumed a casual position by the door.

Next through the door came a harmless-looking dandy with a naïve nature. The light shone in his blue eyes as he gazed around the Ochre Room. The first man scoffed inwardly; surely this effeminate blond would pose no competition. However, he respectfully stepped forward to introduce himself. "Good morning."

"Oh! Good morning!" The voice perfectly matched the demeanor; had this man reached age thirteen yet? "How do you do?"

"Very well, thank you. And yourself?"

"Very well."

"My name is Li Shang." Shang straightened, determined to use his military training to his full advantage. "General of the Emperor's Army."

"Pleasure to meet you, Li." Shang winced. "My name is Adam – Adam Bête, of the Chateau de Joiale." The two men bowed, Adam artfully, Shang rigidly. Silence ensued.

Adam shifted, sighed, and finally broke it. "The room is lovely."

"Indeed."

"Where are you from, Li?"

"I bear allegiance to the Emperor of China. You, I have guessed, are French."

"You guessed well." Adam giggled self-consciously. He and Shang were of the same height, but Shang's barrel chest encased in metal immediately put Adam on his guard.

Since Adam's back was to the door, Shang was the first to see the beast enter. Despite walking on all fours, it stood nearly as tall as a man. The tawny coat and mahogany mane shone like fire, and the strong square muzzle denoted an alpha male. Shang had heard tales of men being ravaged by creatures such as these, and he shifted his body into a subtle defensive. Adam looked startled at Shang's change in attitude and followed his gaze; yet instead of screaming, as Shang expected, he seemed to perk up.

"Hello." Adam rushed over to where the lion stood and bowed. "Adam Bête of the Chateau de Joiale, at your service."

The lion seemed taken aback; yet against all odds, it spoke. "I'm Simba, Pride Rock."

Adam nodded. "The Savannah, I presume?"

The great beast nodded.

Adam grinned. "Can I just say, your mane is beautifully kept. Now, I've had some experience myself with…"

And the lion was gone. Rather, the speed with which it rolled into the dining room was such that for several seconds, Adam stared at the spot he had vacated, uncomprehending. Simba had become a blur of fur and snarls, spinning like a dog trying to rid himself of an unwelcome accessory. Shang's sword was halfway out of its sheath before he realized the rage wasn't unprecedented; a sinewy man clad in naught but a leather wrap had secured himself around the lion's neck and was trying to pin him down, while snarling in the most inhuman way. By comparison, Simba, clearly panicked, was talking uncontrollably.

"Hey, what are you doing? Get off me! Get off me, you idiot! Ow! Are you crazy?!"

Adam set his jaw and spoke assertively, yet his prepubescent voice had no effect. "Stop it! Stop this foolishness! At once, you hear?"

Shang surveyed the scene calmly before walking to the fray, picking the man up around the waist, and setting him on his feet. "This is not the environment," he intoned.

Simba frantically tried to straighten his mane. "Thank you." Turning to the offending man, he glared. "What are you, some kind of maniac?"

"_No Numa!_" snarled the feral man. "_No killing!_"

"Exactly!" cried Simba. "What's a numa?"

Tarzan bared his teeth and pointed at Simba. "_NUMA!_"

"He's calling you a 'numa', whatever that means," said Adam.

"That's insane," muttered Simba, but he turned back patiently to face his attacker. "I'm not going to kill anyone. My name is Simba."

Under the influence of Shang, the man seemed to be calming down. "Numa… Simba… Simba will not hurt? Not kill?"

Adam, Shang and Simba exchanged quizzical looks. Simba responded slowly, as though talking with a child. "No. I am a friendly lion. A friendly, er, numa. I'm Simba." He smiled. "And you are…"

"Tarzan," he muttered before pacing away and crouching ape-like on the ground.

Drawn together by the event, Shang and Adam shared an unspoken look of uncertainty before noticing the two men hanging by the door, jaws slack. Shang pulled himself together first and approached the two.

"Li Shang, general of the Emperor's Army." He bowed twice: once at a tall, fresh-faced youth with thick black hair, swarthy skin and dark blue eyes, and another at a strapping man with a military bearing yet an easygoing demeanor, with shaggy straw-coloured hair, a small goatee, and dark eyes. "You may refer to me as 'Shang'," he remarked pointedly. Adam shifted awkwardly.

"Eric, of Atlantica," offered the younger. He bowed awkwardly, clearly unused to the custom.

"Phoebus de Châteaupers," said the elder, inclining his head amiably. Lowering his voice, he whispered, "Was that lion speaking just now?"

"Yes," quipped Shang. Adam approached, beaming.

"Hello, Eric, Phoebus, am I right?" He bowed to both, introduced himself, and turned to face Phoebus. "From where in France are you, may I ask?"

Phoebus shifted his weight and scratched his head uneasily. "Paris, I suppose you would say. Shang," he added, changing the subject, "were you just mentioning that you serve as a general for China?"

"Yes." Shang nodded, pleased.

"China? One of my first expeditions ended in China," said a fair man just walking through the door. Tall, chiseled and domineering, Shang immediately singled him out as the fiercest competition. However, none noticed his sentiment as they bowed and introduced themselves.

"John Smith, originally from London." He offered his hand to the group at large and was shocked when Tarzan was the first to grab it. He did not stop there; he counted the five fingers and sniffed before letting it go.

"Tarzan," he intoned before loping off once more. John shrugged the encounter off.

"Have you been to Africa?" asked Simba.

"Oh, sure, it was… ha, a talking lion. Well," he added, inclining his head, "I suppose once one converses with a _tree_ anything's…"

"I don't know about a tree, but I knew a pretty animated carpet once." This new voice belonged to a scrawny youth of barely 18 years, Arabian in appearance with a wide, toothy smile and mischievous eyes. "Call me Aladdin." It was clear from this boy's demeanor that, despite his shabbiness of dress and diminutive stature, he was the most at his ease of anyone in the room.

"It is past 10," boomed a voice from a corner of the room. Out of the shadows strode an extremely serious-looking man in deerskin pants, cape and moccasins, with skin like polished wood and a thick curtain of black hair. Conversation halted as this imposing figure drew nearer.

John pushed his way out of the crowd, an awkward grin on his lips as he extended his hand towards the man. "Kocoum, how are you?"

"Smith."

John used his neglected hand to brush back the hair that had fallen into his face. "Ah… Shang, Adam, Phoebus, Simba, Eric, Aladdin, and, ah, Tarzan, this," he gestured broadly, "is Kocoum. We've, er, met."

Phoebus raised his eyebrows. "Not much of a talker, are you, there?" Appropriately, silence accompanied this remark.

"_What was it called again?"_

"_The 'Ochre Room', whatever that means."_

"_Is Ochre a colour?"_

The pair of voices that now rang down the hallway was accompanied by heavy footsteps that started and stopped as the owners apparently made pause to look around. An unspoken acknowledgement passed among the men in the room: _they're no competition_. Phoebus, however, knit his eyebrows as he listened before darting out of the room. A second later, he re-entered, arm around the shoulders of a small man in a green tunic and brown hose.

"Everyone, this is Quasi. Quasi, this is…" as he ran through the list of names, the men took their time to subtly survey this strange character. Phoebus was obviously stooping quite a bit to reach his shoulders, as a hunchback reduced the otherwise strapping man to the size of a child, shorter than Simba. A protrusion nearly covered his left eye, his nose was pushed back snout-like, his teeth were huge and fought for space, and lank red hair fell like a shutter over his forehead. His age was impossible to tell, but he spoke and gazed at all with a heartwarming childlike innocence. Tarzan bounded forward and came to rest on his knuckles in front of Quasi, hooting softly; but when Quasi answered with a hesitant greeting Tarzan grew surly and loped away.

The man who entered behind Quasi wasn't immediately noticed; Quasi himself was quite a distraction. However, once the men saw him, the tension that had been dwindling snapped back to the fore. This man was of an objectively perfect physique. Chiseled, bronze arms protruded from the leather tunic, with legs to match. Bulging calves strained against laced sandals. His torso, though covered, clearly funneled from a chest of carved marble to a stomach seemingly composed of a column of orbs. So shocked by his physique were they that it was sometime before they noticed his face; which, by contrast to the rippling neck it perched upon, was smiling with an affable, friendly grin. A mop of ruddy curls completed the picture. Quasi gestured back to him with little intimidation. "This is Hercules."

The rest of the men shifted and muttered their greetings.

A piercing, inhuman wail pervaded the room, and they all glared accusingly at Tarzan as they covered their ears, until they realized he was glaring accusingly back at them. Immediately following, a voice pervaded the room – "Sorry, sorry, feedback…" and they relaxed. "If you'll take your places now, we'll begin shortly."

The table was large, but it took some time for the men to arrange themselves in an order that suited them. Phoebus and Quasi immediately took chairs next to each other, with Hercules on Quasi's opposite side. Eric chose the chair to the right of Phoebus, followed by Aladdin. Kocoum sat resolutely two chairs to the right of Aladdin, leaving a gap that John moved to fill, but Kocoum's glare sent him all but scurrying to sit next to Hercules. Shang took the gap instead, his military background making him somewhat immune to Kocoum's abrasive aura. Tarzan bounded towards the chair next to John, gesturing for Simba to follow; Simba looked wary, but realized he had little choice as the seat next to Tarzan was the only one converted to accommodate four legs. He hopped onto the seat and seemed to deflate further as Adam took the seat on his other side. There now remained one empty chair between Kocoum and Adam (for which Adam seemed thankful). An unspoken question arose: to whom did it belong?

"Good morning, good morning, gentlemen. We're still waiting on one other, but we'll begin anyway." The speaker behind an onstage podium was a 30-something woman in a rather pretty salmon dress; she seemed quite frazzled and her heavy brown hair was orchestrating an escape from its bobby pins. "Good morning, my name is Deminda O'Kelly, the chair of the Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition Executive Committee." The men politely applauded. "May I take this moment to most sincerely welcome you all and assure you that the inaugural event will surely surpass all expectations. Believe me when I say that all of us on the Committee are thrilled to pieces about your participation." Her rapid pacing seemed to suggest that she herself didn't believe it what she said. "Without further ado, I will now pass the microphone to our master of ceremonies, Michael Mouse."

Again, polite applause filled the room, but faltered somewhat as a five-foot-tall anthropomorphic mouse in a tuxedo sprinted into the room with a jovial, borderline maniacal grin on his face. Once at the podium, he seized the microphone with a white-gloved, four-fingered hand and wrenched it from is stand. "Ho-Ho! Thanks for the introduction, Deminda! Isn't she lovely! Allow me to introduce myself: Mickeeeeeeeey Mouse! Ha-Ha!"

The men applauded once more to cover the dead air as they stared the creature, trying to figure out what exactly it was they were looking at.

"Let me start by…"

Bang! Bang! The doors to the Ochre Room flew open and crashed against the wall. An imposing man strode into the room. Judging by the pectoral muscles straining against his scarlet tunic, he seemed to be Hercules' rival for the most muscular man in the room. His chin probably could have crushed rock, and his eyes underneath thick black eyebrows certainly displayed the intent. His ebony hair was drawn back from a handsome widow's peak into a short, curly tail. The air in the room instantly soured; the man seemed to exude loathsomeness, and each other person detected it.

"Late, am I?" he boomed as he swaggered towards the empty chair.

Mickey, however, chuckled. "Gentlemen, my I introduce Gaston Cerfeaux?"

Gaston flexed and settled himself in between Kocoum and Adam, the latter of who stared at him with shock and, strangely, rage. Looking over Adam, he addressed the rest of the table: "Who let this kid in here? Am I right?"

A hint of guilt underscored the other men's disapproving glances; each of them had entertained similar sentiments.

"Gaston Cerfeaux," Adam intoned, staring pointedly.

"You know it," Gaston replied.

"Huhn."

Phoebus smiled and chuckled awkwardly. "Well, at least France is well represented, eh?" Quasi grinned.

Mickey interjected. "Yes, yes, welcome to Mr. Cerfeaux. We're very excited to have all of you here. This is going to be a zippidee-doo-dah week! With games, fun, and getting' to know ya, and let's not forget the very special Disney prize!"

Each man perked up.

"That's right! Whichever one of you princes demonstrates the most nebulous know-how will receive their very own spin-off series of novels, a merchandise reboot, and a 20-episode television program!"

The men fought to stem too gleeful a reaction.

"But of course, the main point of the competition is to really get to know each other and have fun!"

All smiled uneasily.

"And now for our most radiant judges!" A door onstage opened, and out stepped a plump woman in a muted sable-coloured gown. "Carlotta!" Erik grinned and clapped louder than the rest.

"Fifi Plume-Chiffon!" Each man's eyes widened at the coy brunette beauty in a slinky, low-cut black dress.

"Carpet!" A lushly embroidered carpet sailed in, balanced on two corner tassels and bowed; remembering Aladdin's earlier remark, the other tablemates stared at him as he laughed and cheered.

"Shenzi!" A smirking, vicious-looking hyena stalked forward; Simba growled.

"Grandmother Willow!" A window opened, and the bark of a tree outside seemed to morph to reveal a smiling face. This time, it was John who received curious stares.

"Clopin!" One heard this judge before seeing him; his brightly coloured pink and orange tumbling costume was fitted with numerous jingle bells. Quasi beamed and waved frantically, and Phoebus chuckled as though sharing a private joke with himself.

"Hermes!" A flash of blue light streaked through the door and came to rest in the air above the contestants, revealing itself to be a man bourn by wings on his shoes and helmet.

"Matchmaker Chun Mei!" A six-foot-tall, rather robust woman in flowing Chinese robes marched through the door with a disapproving glare. Her eyes sought out Shang and narrowed menacingly.

"And finally, Terkana!" Another animal, this time a medium-sized female gorilla, knuckle-walked through the door.

"Call me Terk," she quipped.

"TERK!" Upending his chair, Tarzan raced over to the gorilla and enveloped her in a crushing hug.

"Ah, heya, buddy…"

"Terk, I met a numa named Simba, but he's not going to hurt us, he's friendly!"

"Yeah, Tar…"

"And look at that man." He gestured at Quasi. "He walks like us! Look!"

Terk socked him across the face. "Would you shut up? You're embarrassing me!"

Tarzan rubbed his face. "Ow." Slowly, he resumed his place, apparently unaware that each man was staring at him condescendingly – except for Quasi, who regarded him with great interest.

Gaston guffawed. "Keep that freak away from me." He turned and caught the smouldering eye of Adam. "Something bothering you, junior?"

Mickey tugged at his collar. "Heh, heh, heh. Now, boys, I won't bother you with any more chatter… bon appétit!"

Instantly, an army of waiters materialized with covered plates, which cleared to reveal eggs Benedict carved in the shape of three interlocking circles. A quick glance confirmed that their breakfast was indeed modeled after Mickey's head.

* * *

_I should explain "Adam". Since his name isn't given in the film, I was originally going to dub him "Hugh". It seemed to fit! But, after a quick Wikipedia reference, I was dismayed to discover that a name was assigned in some spinoff novel or comic. Begrudgingly, I searched and replaced each instance of "Hugh" with "Adam". It hurt, but such is the pain of writing Fanfiction. "Joiale", the name of his chateau, is a word I coined. It doesn't really mean anything, but it's somewhat based on "jolie" (pretty) and "joie" (joy)._

_I should also explain Gaston's last name. I coined it out of the word "cerf", which means "deer", and "eaux", which is a common pluralized suffix. It's pronounced "Serf-OH"._

_"De Châteaupers" is Phoebus' last name in the Victor Hugo novel._

_"Numa" is the Mangana (language of the Apes) word for "Lion" in the Edgar Rice Burroughs novels._

_"Chun Mei" is an arbitrary Mandarin name._

_And as for Deminda O'Kelly - her name is definitely very symbolic. First reviewer to correctly guess its meaning will be given a very, very special prize, details of which are to be released imminently._

__

On that note, please review! I would love to hear your critiques on my characterization, as well as any suggestions you might have.

_Yours in jest,_

_~Curlz_


	2. Bedrooms and Bromance

_A big thank you to yayme2012, my most loyal reviewer!_

* * *

Unlike most of the other competitors, Aladdin only carried one suitcase; owning no armour made packing especially efficient. His key card beeped cheerfully in the slot, and he wedged his way into the room, shoulder first. His roommate had taken the bed by the window and was standing by it, staring stoically at the view.

"Hi." Aladdin dropped his suitcase and approached Kocoum. "You're Kocoum, right?"

"Yes."

"I thought so." Aladdin bounced on his toes a few times. "I'm Aladdin."

"I know."

"Good, good." There was a pause. "So… where do you come from?"

"I am of the Powhatan village on the banks of the mighty Qui-yo-co-hannock River."

"Is that in the west?"

"It is on Turtle Island."

Aladdin raised an eyebrow. "Oh, right. Of… of course. Turtle Island, yeah. I'm from Agrabah, myself. It's sort of north of Africa, you know?"

Still, Kocoum remained silent. Aladdin sighed and blurted out the first thing he could think of.

"So, that John Smith guy. You've met, haven't you? What's he like?"

At this, Kocoum did turn. Two painted bear prints graced his pectorals muscles. Aladdin, who stood a head shorter, subconsciously retreated two steps under his glare. Flight instinct kicked in and he paced backwards towards the door.

"Right. I'm going to see what's what. 'Kay? Good. See ya. Later…" The door closed, blocking Kocoum's hostile visage. Aladdin collapsed against the opposite wall, perspiring.

A whistled song heralded the approach of John Smith. His roommate Hercules was a nice sort of fellow, but the man's self-aware optimism that was initially charming eventually revealed itself to be the naïveté of a man-child. After a few minutes of stilted, uninteresting conversation, the stifling closeness of the room and the call of his window's view forced John outside.

"Smith, right?" asked the ever-sociable Aladdin.

"That's right. And you're Aladdin. You're friends with the carpet."

"You're friends with the tree."

"And now we're both friends with the talking lion."

"And a man that doesn't seem to talk much at all."

Both laughed. John cocked his head. "You're referring to the chap in the loincloth, right?"

"Yeah. Although…" Aladdin lowered his voice. "My roommate's giving him a run for his money."

John glanced at the door. "And your roommate is… Kocoum?"

Aladdin nodded excitedly. "Yeah. You know him, don't you?"

John shifted his weight, a playfully awkward expression on his face. "We met, er, once."

Aladdin raised an eyebrow, but didn't pursue. "Where are you off to now?"

"Oh. Just off to explore the terrain. It's gorgeous out there."

"Is it? D'you mind if I tag along?"

For a second, John hesitated. "Ah… no, no I don't. How good are you at climbing trees?"

"Pretty good." The men fell into step beside one another. "Well, I mean, I've never tried, there aren't any in the desert, but I think I'd be good."

Unseen by Aladdin, John rolled his eyes. "Oh."

Phoebus had just changed from the rust-coloured doublet and leggings he had worn to breakfast into a loose white tunic and brown peasant pants, and was about to leave when the door swung open, banging rudely against the closet. His roommate had arrived; Phoebus shuddered with revulsion. Gaston strode through the room, leaving dirty footprints all the way across the carpet. Phoebus had nearly managed to slip through the door when Gaston grabbed him around the shoulders and hauled him forth.

"Philippe, is it?"

"Phoebus."

"Well, I hope you don't mind if I take the far bed."

Phoebus had actually already arranged his bags by the window side, but as Gaston rolled onto it and reclined, he decided he didn't want it anymore. "Please, be my guest," he murmured as he dragged his bags back towards the other bed.

"That one judge is a hot number, now, isn't she?" Gaston bellowed. "Bet she's easy."

Phoebus made a non-committal noise.

"Oh, come on, you can't tell me you don't want to tug that collar down just an inch."

Phoebus smiled thinly. "I'm married."

Gaston laughed. "Well, aren't we all, but you'd have to be crazy not to. Crazy, or homosexual."

Phoebus couldn't reconcile the first part of the sentence in his brain, so he forgave the second and asked, "You? You're married? Really?"

Gaston leaned forward. "Here's the deal. There's this girl. Completely smoking. Plays hard-to-get. You know the type? Thin, with a lotta chest. Anyways, she's in love with some dog. She's all, 'but he's really kind, and gentle'. I know, makes you sick, doesn't it? Obviously she's just playing me a bit. I'm a hunter. She knows how I like it. That's why I'm doing the pageant, you know. When I win she won't be able to resist any longer."

Despite his instincts warning him against engaging the lunatic, Phoebus couldn't help himself. "Really? She's pretending to be in love with a guy just to, er, spice things up for you?"

"Well, you gotta see this guy. He's _deformed_. You know that gimp at the table this morning? How the hell is he in this competition? That swimsuit judging's going to be fun to watch. Anyways, the guy she's after is _worse_ than him. Hairy. How can she expect me to actually believe she's in love with him? When she could be having some of this?"

"I don't know." Those digs at Quasi had been the breaking point. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find something to do that's less painful than talking to you. Getting shot in the ribs, perhaps…" he marched out and slammed the door behind him, nearly running into Quasi.

"Phoebus, hi. You look upset."

"No kidding. My roommate? He's that ass Gaston from breakfast."

"By God." Quasi stared at the door, behind which Gaston's laughter at Phoebus' exit line could still be heard. "If you need a patch of floor to sleep on…"

"Thanks, friend. I'll let you know. Who did you get?"

"Shang. He's nice enough. I didn't talk to him long, though. He's already at the gymnasium."

Phoebus chuckled. "Oh, soldiers."

Quasi laughed. "Yeah, _soldiers_." Playfully he punched Phoebus in the arm, who grunted in pain and responded less playfully in kind.

"So, is there anything around to see?"

Quasi's eyes shone. "There's a church in town that can fit _three thousand people_."

Phoebus tried to feign interest. "Wow." As they moved down the hall, Phoebus added, "perhaps we can get our hands on some wine first. Or more."

* * *

Eric had spent the last ten minutes watching his roommate completely disassemble and reassemble his bedding in the shape of a gorilla nest, and while it was undeniably amusing, he figured common courtesy dictated he say something. He cleared his throat. "So, you're Tarzan."

Tarzan halted before jumping across the room and landing on his feet in front of Eric. "I'm Tarzan. You're Eric."

"Yes." Eric checked himself to make sure he spoke to Tarzan like an adult to an adult. "Is it true you're from Africa?"

"From the Jungle. With Ape family."

"Apes?"

"Eric is from London?"

Eric shook his head. "No, not London. But I do live on the sea. I like boats." He smiled.

Tarzan didn't. "Boats bring Clayton into Jungle. Boats take friends away." Tarzan hunched his shoulders defensively, and Eric panicked.

"I don't like _those _boats! I like… I don't like boats. I don't like boats." Tarzan relaxed.

"But some boats bring Jane to Tarzan," he mused thoughtfully.

Eric seized on that. "I like _those_ boats. I like boats that bring Jane to Tarzan." _Jane_? "Is Jane, ah, your wife?"

"Jane is Tarzan's mate." From a sac of belongings, Tarzan produced a charcoal sketch of a spunky-looking young woman. "This is Jane."

"Jane looks very nice." He bent back over his bed and rooted through his luggage for a small card. "This is Ariel. She's my mate. Er, wife."

A young, redheaded girl was shown languishing on a rock, sporting an elegant green tail in place of legs. Tarzan stared at the picture curiously. "How?"

"This is from when she was a mermaid. She has legs now."

Tarzan shook his head. "No. _How you mate?_" He pointed with a rather large index finger at a spot on her tail just below her hips. Like a thunderclap, Eric understood the question. He snatched the picture back with revulsion.

"I'm going to have a shower. You know, shower? Bathe? Wash?" he tossed nastily back over his shoulder.

* * *

Simba wasn't embarrassed that he required special attention due to his quadropedality. Well, he told himself he wasn't. Really, it inconvenienced him more than anything: one possible chair on which to sit, one possible room in which to stay. At least they didn't stoop so low as to install a cat flap. His paw on the read-out pad caused a _ping_ and a _click_, and his door opened slowly for him. He dropped his small bag on the shoe mat and walked in for inspection.

Simba wasn't annoyed when he saw Adam Bête reclining on the bed across the room. Well, he told himself he wasn't.

"Ah, Simba! How do you do?"

"Well, thank you." The second bed had been removed, a large pile of pillows left in its place. Simba tested them out and was pleased with the results.

"How did you enjoy breakfast?"

"I enjoyed it. A bit heavy." He looked up to see Adam smiling eagerly at him from across the room. "It's interesting, isn't it, that we both sat together at breakfast and got, er,_ randomly_ selected to be roommates."

Adam's laugh was too loud. "Yes! Randomly!" he cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly. "It's nice, the pile of pillows, isn't it? I preferred it, myself… or would prefer it, were I in your shoes."

As Simba relaxed into a pattern of nodding at Adam's banal comments, he realized how interesting it was going to be to determine whether Adam was homosexual, zoophilic, or simply pathetic.

* * *

"You're good!" exclaimed John as he and Aladdin crested the top of a giant redwood. "You sure you've never climbed a tree?"

"Yeah. I deal mostly in towers and turrets. I figure, if you've scaled one cylinder you've scaled them all."

"Apparently. Look." Smith took in the sights from the top of the hill like a hungry man would a filet mignon.

"Yeah, it's, uh… it's really something." Aladdin twirled a twig through his fingers for a few seconds before lobbing it down, watching satisfied as it crashed through the foliage. "You know, I think it's really great of you to try to patch things up with your antagonist."

"Who?"

"You know. Kocoum. You guys are civil."

John thought for a few seconds before answering. "He wasn't really the antagonist."

"Oh." Aladdin retreated a few inches.

"Neither was I," John added. "It was… ambiguous."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, surely you have some moral ambiguity in your past? Didn't you ever do something bad trying to do something good?"

"Sure. I stole food for myself and for my pet, and for the kids that lived down the alley and for Mrs. Mahmoud with the bad back…"

"So basically, no. Here's what happened." John settled himself in the crotch of a branch. "He was betrothed to a girl. She and I fell in love. He saw us together and thought I was hurting her, so he rushed in to kill me. My mate Thomas saw him trying to kill me and shot him. Killed him. Hours before, I'd taught him how to shoot a musket. He's not a bad guy. Kocoum is not a bad guy. I'm not a bad guy. It's ambiguous."

"Oh." Aladdin wrinkled his nose. "Does that happen a lot?"

John's answer was cut off as a wild-looking Tarzan flew past them and crashed through the foliage, only to emerge a few seconds later several meters away. Shock silenced them.

"Well, that was humbling," said John as he began to descend.

* * *

_Interlude chapter for characterization purposes. You understand._

_The prize for correctly determining the origin of Deminda O'Kelly's name is: a cameo appearance in a later chapter!! I shall write you a part of your choosing! I'll also start dropping hints along with updates._

_My updating pattern is as follows: every time the link to my story gets bumped off the first page, I add a chapter. That way I stretch it out, collect as many readers as possible, and remain relevant._

_Once again, I appreciate critical reviews. I'm not going to pretend this story is a work of genius - it's really just a vanity project - but nonetheless I'd like opinions on my style and characterization._

_I'm also looking for a beta reader, so please message me if you're interested!_

_~Curlz_


	3. Strutting Studs

_I've re-uploaded this chapter to correct two mistakes: one pointed out to me by J (Eric's age), and one I noticed myself after the fact; namely, referring to Adam as "Hugh". (Adam is a stupid name for him; he's French, for crying out loud.) Also, I'm going to agree with J on the spelling out numbers front (although I'm in the habit of only spelling out numbers below 20). Exception: the scores, because for those of you keeping track at home (unlikely but plausible), I figure it's easier to read._

_I'll just mention now that chapters will alternate between character interaction and onstage description. I'll also mention that the scores are decided by yours truly because I wield the pen (metaphorically, of course). If you disagree, well, it won't change the fic, but do leave a review, I'd love to hear your opinions._

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"Welcome to the first annual Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition! I'm your host, Mikeeeeeey Mouse! We have a great show lined up for you today here at the Evafta Hotel and Convention Center, where dreams live happily ever after!

"This portion of the pageant serves two purposes: first, it introduces you, ladies and gentlemen, to all the fantastic people we have here at the pageant, both judges and our wonderful Disney Renaissance men! Second, it gives them a chance to show off that wonderful confidence, charisma and sense of style that every Disney Renaissance man should posses! That's right: it's the Catwalk, and it counts for 5% of the total score! That means, ladies and gentlemen, that it will be scored out of 5. Our contestants will be presented in chronological order, wearing the clothes they sport for just hangin' around!"

"First, our fabulous judges: The compassionate CARLOTTA! The fiery FIFI PLUME-CHIFFON! The compelling CARPET! Via satellite, the gregarious GRANDMOTHER WILLOW! The caddish CLOPIN! The harbinging HERMES! The meticulous MATCHMAKER! The turbulent TERK! And finally, our catwalk expert who will lead the judging of this round, the oh-so-salacious SHENZIIII!

"Are you ready to meet our first contestant? Are you ready? I can't hear you! Ok! Please put your four-fingered hands together for PRIIIIiiiinnnnccce ERIC!

"Eric is the young prince of Atlantica, a beautiful Mediterranean country close to Greece. Eighteen years old, he enjoys sailing, swimming, practicing sign language, and championing his charity Fish Safe, which encourages fishermen to check their nets for merpeople before they send the catch to the fishery! He is sporting a loose white shirt, grey trousers, black boots and a funky red sash to make sure he's noticed.

"Thank you very much, Eric, you've set the bar very high. Next, allow me to present ADAAAAAAAM BÊTE!

"Adam calls the Chateau de Joiale in Frances' Périgord Region home! Don't let his innocent appearance fool you; his is a whole 21 years old! Adam's hobbies include reading with his wife in his huge library, bathing with household appliances, and dancing to the sound of a whistling kettle! He has played it pretty daring with a white shirt several sizes too big for him and black slacks, both torn at the cuffs, finished with a red cape and bare feet! Ooh! But does his confidence match that of Eric's? We'll have to wait and see!

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have two representatives from the Périgord here today! Please welcome to the stage the ever-confident GASTOOOoooooonnn CERFEAUX!

"Gaston, 26, is known as 'Mr. Masculinity' around his small town! His favourite hobbies are hunting, bragging about hunting, and hanging his bounty on his wall! Both animals and women, apparently! Ooh, racy. In keeping with an apparently established colour scheme, Gaston has paired a scarlet tunic with black slacks and boots! His quiver of arrows, as always, is on hand.

"Thank you, Gaston, I haven't seen a strut like that since Donald scored one with Daisy! Our next contestant is our youngest this year, but don't underestimate ALLLLLLADDIN!

"Eighteen-year-old Aladdin hails from the city of Agrabah, where he squats with his monkey friend Abu! He spends his time running from city guards and promoting a socialist agenda. Ever the style rack, he rather uniquely combines a thin purple hipster vest with a pair of off-white hammer pants! Whoo, careful not to trip over the crotch of those! He rocks the bare feet too, and tops off the whole ensemble with a rather small and precariously perched fez!

"Following the young'un of the competition is our only contestant that hails from the animal kingdom. Mickeys and Minnies, get excited for SIMBAAAAAAA!

"Simba, age 25 in lion years, is the reluctant patriarch of the Pride Rock Pride out in the Savannah grasslands! He lives in, on, and around Pride Rock with his mother, aunts, first wife Nala, four secondary wives and many concubines, whom he graciously shares with the lesser males! Simba is "Daddy" to one adorable little girl and spends his days organizing blockades against hostile species. Simba has parted his mane between his eyes and combed it straight back and down. Revolutionary!

"Thank you, Simba – or should I say, King Simba! Next – and ladies, hold onto your moccasins – is CAPtain JOOOOOooohhhnnnn SMIIIIIIITH!

"Born 30 years ago in London, England, Captain Smith has made it his life's work to see as much of the world as possible. After viewing first hand (and by his own hand) the terrors of colonialism, he has worked to champion the cause of savages – pardon me, people who are uncivilized – everywhere through his _Colours of the Wind_ art classes. He is a perfect shot with a musket – but don't worry, he also knows how to use his hands! Ahem. Breaking with the red/black norm, he sports a light blue shirt – open wider than usual, dare I suggest? – and dark blue trousers with hefty black boots. His hair is styled – forgive me, I've just been told that he never touches his hair. It is naturally perfect.

"As one hair god leaves, another must enter – please show stoic respect for KOCOUUUUMMM!

"At only 25 years old, Kocoum is the most celebrated warrior of the Powhatan band. He is an accomplished flint knapper and virtue protector. He has chosen a fringed deerskin wrap, traditional bear prints on his chest, and an eagle feather wedged into his sexy, thick, black Mohawk hairstyle. In his words, 'Moccasins are for cowards and special events.' Thank you very much for the insight, Kocoum!

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so let us now behold QUAAAASiiiiiiiiIIIMODOOO! Oh – whoopsies, sorry, I have just been told that he goes by 'Quasi' now. Welcome to the stage, Quasi!

"Quasi, age 21, is single-handedly responsible for the lovely, melodic bell music that rudely jerks a million Parisians out of their restful much-needed slumber every morning. Despite his celebrity status, Quasi is a homebody, rarely venturing forth from the tower. His hobbies are woodcarving, acrobatics – I know, who woulda thunk? – and bottling his emotions! Quasi has attired himself in his standard uniform of a simple green tunic, brown hose, and wholly insubstantial grey cloth shoes. When asked about his greatest fear, Quasi replies, 'Overripe tomatoes and eggs'. Better not tell him about the tomato omelet I had this morning!

"Next up is Quasi's partner in crime, PHOEBUS 'Don't Call Me Phoebe' DE CHÂTEAUPERS!

"35 years of experience makes Phoebus our oldest contestant this year! After being dishonourably discharged from the His Majesty's Service for refusing to punish outcasts and innocent fugitives, he was forced to become one and spends his days dancing seductively in the streets for small change while skirting the gaze of people he once considered his inferiors. The most simply dressed man yet, he models a dirty white tunic and brown peasant trousers with black boots. Ravishing!

"Our next contestant certainly breaks the mould! Hydras, run for your lives, it's the mighty HERCULEEEEEES!

"Hercules is a 20-year-old demi-god who chose to forego a life as a small fish in a big pond on Mount Olympus for a life as the ALPHAFISH here on earth! Over-qualified for every single job conceivable, he is registered with the Speakers of the Peloponnesian and travels throughout the Mediterranean headlining at conferences, commencements, and professional wrestling tournaments. His newest energy drink, HercuSlurp, is on sale in the lobby. Always prepared, he matches his fortified leather tunic with wrist guards, sandals, a blue cape, and his trademark sweatband.

"The third and last in our 'Men Who Make Their Living Off Violence' sequence, please welcome to the stage General LIIIIIiiiiiii SHAAAAAANG!

"At 27, Shang has recently been working to regain street cred after being shown up in front of the entire Chinese Empire by a girl, his current wife Fa Mulan. His latest pet project is the creation of an organization called the Ping Alliance, which works to eradicate prejudice against and offer support to LGBT people everywhere. The groups' motto, 'He might be a woman in disguise but it's highly unlikely', has been described as 'spiteful'; however, Shang does not bow to critics! He has chosen his 'coaching gear' to exhibit to us, which consists of beige leggings, white buttoned boots, and a shirt of pure _muscle_. The judges are certainly nodding their approval! Shang's hidden talent is, without a doubt, his singing voice, which has been compared to Donny Osmond's.

"Our next contestant certainly Donnys _my _Osmond! Fresh from Africa, give a great alpha male cry for our last contestant, TAAAAAAR-ZAAAAAN! Ahem…. TAAAAR-ZAAAAAAN! Tarzan? Where is… Ah, here he is!

"Tarzan, 23 years old in human years, leads the Mangana gorilla tribe after taking over from his abusive adoptive father, Kerchak. He thrills at leaping and sliding through the foliage of his jungle home and can communicate semi-fluently with fifteen different species of animal, including humans. He is heavily inspired by rock star Phil Collins and often describes his music as 'soundtrack of Tarzan's life'. Tarzan shows some skin, no pun intended, in a loincloth likely torn victoriously from the carcass of one of his many, many, many jungle enemies. His natural dreadlocks have been described as 'swoon inducing' by every single human female who has come in contact with him, which as of now totals one.

"Now we'll let our judges deliberate as they sip their cappuccinos, generously provided by Starbucks, the coffeehouse of the Stars with big Bucks!

"Hey everyone, here's a thought. Why doesn't Cinderella play soccer?

"Because she always runs away from the ball! Ha-Ha!

"No, seriously, why doesn't she play soccer?

"Because her coach is a pumpkin! Ho-Ho!

"Gulp…

"It seems our judges have reached a decision. Gentlemen, please line up along the stage once more. Thank you. Now, I'd like to invite the deliciously evil Judge Shenzi to read the results. Shenzi, you have the floor."

"Thank you, Mickey. Remember, men, the score is out of five. I will call your names one by one and read you your score. We'll start with Eric.

"Your outfit is very nice. Nice blood red sash, right at the midriff – ooh, could I go for some long pork right now! I only wish you had a personality to match. 2 out of 5.

"Adam, please step forward. With that get-up, all shredded, I expected to smell the blood of your latest kill on the air, but all I can think of when I see you is, 'aww, wook at that liddle widdle!' Grow a set and we'll talk. 3 out of five.

"Gaston, you want to watch your swagger. You nearly kicked our eyes out. You seem cocky, like the kind of guy who would shoot an antelope and leave it over night, just so you could shoot me if I scavenged it. Not cool. 1 out of 5.

"Aladdin, you're _are_ a 'liddle widdle', but boy, do you know how to work a room! 5 out of 5.

"Simba, you walk like you run your pride: begrudgingly. 2 out of 5.

"John. John Smith. Mm-mm. I have nothing to say except: 5 out of 5. Loosen a few more buttons and I'll bump it up to 6… no? Ok.

"Kocoum, you have the self confidence all worked out, but I would not want to be in a room alone with you and that glare. I see you and I _shudder_. Oo-hoo-hoo. 3 out of 5.

"Quasi: nervous? I expected you to turn tail and run. I promise you, I won't bite. 2 out of 5.

"Phoebus, you swagger. Not as bad as Gaston over there, but then, that would be impossible, wouldn't it? 3 out of 5.

"Hercules: meathead. That's all I'm seeing here. You're – mmmm – yummy to look at, but: 3 out of 5.

"Shang, I agreed with your decision to remove your shirt. I like your body. Problem is, so do you. Too much. Eh, what the heck. 4 out of 5.

"And finally, Tarzan. Boy, you looked lost, staggering everywhere like a wounded wildebeest. I was tempted to point you in the right direction. That, or eat you. 1 out of 5.

"Thank you, Mickey."

"Thank _you_, Shenzi. Mm, mm, look at her! Boy-oh-boy, for an anatomically correct hyena she is fine, isn't she? Well, Gentlemen, audiences, that concludes today's Catwalk event! Thank you for coming down to the Grand Ballroom of the Evafta Hotel and Convention Center, where dreams live happily ever after! I'll see you this evening at one of our most highly anticipated events, the Mr. Physique swimsuit competition, out in the Evafta's beautiful outdoor amphitheatre!"

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_Huge thank you to my reviewers, yayme2012 and the mysteriously named "J". _

_J: Because you left an unsigned review, I'll just respond to you here. I'm going to try to work in conversations between every character, but I'll definitely keep your request in mind._

_Would still appreciate a Beta, if anyone's interested._

_Start submitting suggestions for questions for the Short Answer Interview!_

_Clue to the origin of Deminda O'Kelly's name: _Disney is certainly the VOICE of a generation, is it not?

_~Curlz_


	4. Camaraderie and Confrontations

_Announcement: Going by the advice of J, the next update will take place in the category "Cartoons Disney". So please watch out for it there._

_I also have another note for you before we begin. Reading back over the last chapter, I'm still satisfied with it, but I can see how others might not be. A certain writing partner of mine expressed general apathy towards last chapter; however, I insisted she listen while I read it back to her, and lo and behold, she ended up clutching the edge of the desk for support during recurring fits of laughter. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, the last chapter isn't funny if you skim through it, but it's (according to her) hilarious when you peruse it. If you do go back and peruse it and still think it's a steaming pile, I concede defeat._

_What else… oh yeah, the story._

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John Smith was rather looking forward to a run through the woods. The women in the hotel acted strangely. They seemed drunk, every last one of them, brushing past him in the hallways as though he was invisible. Either that or their abundance of contact was intentional, which didn't make sense. A good nature walk would help him to unwind; he was quite excited.

_Then again_, he thought as he watched Kocoum enter the woods ahead with a quiver of arrows, _I could also use a shower_.

Hercules was sprawled mournfully across his bed when John entered the room. "Er, hello."

"_Meathead_. They think I'm dumb."

John ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, come now, they didn't say that."

"But that's what they _meant_." Hercules clambered to his feet. "Do I actually come off as _dumb_?"

"No." Hercules didn't look away; John spoke before he could check himself. "I think you just seem so happy all the time, people assume you're…"

"I'm what? Dumb?"

John sighed. "Not dumb. Naïve, perhaps."

Hercules shook his head incredulously. "I can't believe it. Everyone in Greece—"

"Aha, and there's your problem. You're a celebrity in Greece, aren't you? How are you expected to keep a level head?"

"But I wasn't always a celebrity. When I went to school—"

"You'll find that rarely anybody knows your history right away."

Hercules paused, then shrugged petulantly. "You're making fun of me. That's fine."

"No, I'm not." John sighed. "I don't see why you're so upset, man. It's five percent of the score."

"It's not just the contest. Honestly," Hercules leaned in conspiratorially, and John followed suit. "I don't need this. I already have a spin-off show."

"Then why are you…"

"I owed them a favour. Don't worry about it. What I mean is, I don't want to come off as _dumb_ the rest of my life."

John thought about once again protesting the word "dumb", but saved himself the effort. "Listen, odds are you're already married, or otherwise taken, so why the crisis?" He paused. "You're only 20."

"Yeah, so?"

"You've got _years_. I've got ten years on you, and that chap Phoebus, 15 at least. You have time. In fact, what we're doing here right now, talking like this, this is helping."

"It is?"

"Yes." John stood and stretched. "Conversation is indeed the best means of broadening the mind. I suggest you go out and try it with as many people as possible. I'll be in the shower."

"Wait… you're married, right?"

John shrugged. "Unrequited love, I'm afraid."

Hercules frowned. "That happens?"

"With frightening frequency. Good afternoon."

As the bathroom door slammed shut, Hercules shook his head. "I thought _I_ had problems."

---

Gaston was waiting for Adam by the doorway. Adam ignored him and reached for the handle, but Gaston thrust his hand forward to rest on the door, blocking his path.

"Think you did well out there, did ya?"

Adam elected not to respond; he stared at Gaston's hand on the door expectantly, hands on hips.

"Three out of five. A bit middling, isn't it? Well," Gaston leaned in and lowered his voice; his breath was gag-worthy. "Five percent isn't much, junior. Watch your back."

"What's going on here?" Simba padded over to the two, glaring at Gaston.

Gaston kept his eyes trained on Adam's face as he answered. "We're just having a conversation."

"Well, I'd like to get into my room, if you don't mind."

"Why don't you run along, kitty?"

Simba was unimpressed. "What was your score again? One out of five? For arrogance? Can't imagine what they meant…"

"Well, women often don't know how to react when faced with a specimen of such perfection."

With Gaston distracted, Adam managed to sneak his key card into the slot and gently nudge the door open. Gaston fell like a tree into the room and sprang to his feet, teeth bared.

"You'll pay for that," he hissed, but as he cocked his fist Simba's almighty roar disarmed him. He retreated down the hallway, eyes never leaving Adam's face. "We're not through."

Simba chuckled cockily before noticing the pitiable redness of Adam's cheeks. "Hey, don't worry about him. He's a jerk."

Slowly, Adam met his gaze. "I guess I ought to thank you," he offered.

Something in Adam's voice indicated to Simba that the predominant sentiment wasn't of gratitude. He frowned. "Don't mention it?"

"It's just, I could've… Once… I just…" He seemed to be trying to force words out through a gag.

"You could've…?"

"I'm going for a walk," Adam announced. He hesitated, looked back at Simba, and seemed to be struggling to add something more, but he turned and marched off to the stairwell. Simba stared after him, utterly perplexed.

A click that sounded like a door handle caught Simba's attention, and he turned in time to catch Aladdin peering out a barely open door. Aladdin jumped a bit at being caught, but instead of retreating, he calmly joined Simba in the hall.

"I wonder why that douche has it out for Adam."

Simba cocked his head, the feline equivalent to a shrug. "I guess he knows nobody else would take it from him."

Absentmindedly, Aladdin brushed at his shaggy black hair. "Yeah. He tried it with me."

"Did he?"

Aladdin nodded solemnly, and then laughed. "He called me a skinny, sickly spawn of a whore, and said he'd done you-know-what with my mother. I told him I wouldn't know anything about that, I have a girlfriend and therefore have no need to visit a brothel."

Simba guffawed. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing. He stammered and turned red. I didn't have time to wait for his comeback, so I guess we'll never know."

---

Shang decided he liked his roommate. Upon returning from a run through the grounds, intending on settling in to his daily meditation, he found Quasi arranging a simple shrine on his desk. He regarded the items with interest – a small engraving of a veiled woman, and a rectangular wooden cross onto which was attached a tiny, rather dead-looking man – and delighted that, as the two of them clearly had the same idea, the room would remain silent for as long as they needed.

After arranging his own shrine with effigies of his ancestors, Shang crossed his legs, sat high on his tailbone, and began to clear his mind….

A shuffling sound from the other end of the room distracted him, but he blocked it out. Perhaps it was somebody walking by; they would be gone in a second.

When they didn't, in fact, leave, Shang decided the noise was instead his roommate having some slight sinus problems. Surely that would clear up in a minute.

Was he – gods above, was he _crying_? For a moment, Shang indulged his curiosity and focused his full attention on Quasi. No, he wasn't crying; he was intoning.

Inwardly, Shang grimaced. Intoning had never suited him; in fact, it rubbed him quite the wrong way. He rearranged his position and tried to visualize his mantra: _Peace, Serenity_.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena…"

_Peace, Serenity._

"Dominus tecum."

_Peace. Serenity._

"Benedictum tu in mulierbus…"

_Peace. Serenity?_

"…Et benedictus fructus ventris tui…"

_Peace! Serenity!_

"Iesus."

_Peace shut up Serenity you babbling fool._

"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei…"

"Does it _end_?" The words had left Shang's mouth before he could catch them. Quasi didn't seem to notice; his head was bowed, face hidden behind clasped hands, and he rocked slightly on his knees.

"…Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora moris nostrae. Amen."

He seemed to have finished. Shang shook himself and turned back towards the shrine.

"Ave Maria…"

"See you later, Quasi," Shang tossed as he strode out of the room.

"Gratia plena…" The door slammed, cutting off the rest of the chant.

As Shang strode through the lobby, he nearly plowed into a rather despondent-looking Adam. "Pardon me."

"No, please the fault is mine." Adam seemed to remember something; he tapped Shang lightly on the arm to secure his attention. "Quasi's full name, eh? Poor chap."

"Yes. What was it, I've forgotten."

"Why, _Quasimodo_. How cruel."

Shang shrugged. "A mouthful, I suppose."

"No; what it _means_."

"What does it mean?"

"The Latin?" Adam's eyes widened. "Surely you know at least some Latin?"

"Some… Latin?" What little remained of Shang's patience snapped. "Why would I know Latin? I'm from _China_. Do I expect you to know Mandarin?! Tell me, if you like, but be straight about it!"

Adam pursed his lips. "'Half-formed'."

"Oh. That _is_ cruel." A spot of awkwardness descended. "Well, I was just going to…"

"Right. Yes."

Shang and Phoebus' paths crossed soon after; Phoebus, looking flushed and invigorated, was walking back through the lobby after a workout. The two soldiers paused and shared a conversation that seemed to consist mainly of hand gestures and knowing nods. Adam liked Phoebus' easygoing nature and smiled gingerly as he passed.

"Hi."

Pheobus startled and seemed bemused to see Adam standing there. "Uh, hi." An awkward pause. "How's it going, there?"

"Oh, fine."

Phoebus opened his mouth, seemed to realize he had nothing to say, offered a short and pained smile, and darted back towards his room.

---

Eric hadn't realized the hotel had a pool; he hadn't thought to ask, never having seen a swimming pool before. The Evafta Hotel was a rather high-end one, and the pool was accordingly gorgeous. It took time to get used to the surprising taste of chlorine, but Eric privately admitted to himself that he preferred the pool to the sea. Ariel would never have to know.

He liked diving, and in the sea, one had precious little opportunity to practice. It wasn't often that one's boat caught on fire, necessitating a quick radial escape. Eric was sure he had perfected a smooth, taught body position and delighted in repetition, unhindered by a conveniently empty pool.

"AAAaaaAAAaaaAaAaAaAAAAAAA!"

Eric looked up in time to watch his roommate dive not off the low springboard, as Eric had, but the five-meter competitive diving platform. Tarzan somersaulted three times in the air before slicing into the water, stiff as an arrow, with nary a "plop" to signify his entrance.

Without a backwards glance, Eric swam towards the ladder, duly humbled for the day.

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_This is obviously just a filler chapter. Tune in next time, not in "Misc Misc. Movies", but it "Cartoons Disney"._

_~Curlz_


	5. Swimsuit Swagger

_Who knows why I haven't updated in - whoa - over a year? Certainly not because the story wasn't written - it was - oh hell, here's the Swimsuit Competition. Enjoy._

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"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the Amphitheatre of the Evafta Hotel and Convention Centre, where dreams live happily ever after! Tonight, I'm your Master of Ceremonies, Mickeeeeeeey Mouse! Thank you, thank you.

"Ladies, can I hear you make some noise? Whew, that nearly knocked me backwards. They must be excited about tonight's SWIMSUIT COMPETITION!"

The cheers were surely record-breaking.

"Hold on a second while I regain hearing in my iconic ears. Ok. While the Disney Renaissance man is indeed intelligent, kind and charismatic, he is also hunky and mas-cu-line! To demonstrate their mas-cu-linity, our contestants will be modeling swimsuits, paired with a single accessory of their choice to augment their physique. Our judging tonight will be silent, led by the mildly menacing MATCHMAKER! Each man will be scored out of 10 based on the collective opinions of our panel of man-lovin' judges, collected behind sound-proof glass. Of course, this means that the scores won here tonight will account for 10% of the overall score!

"Henceforth, the order of presentation will be based upon the scores won in previous events, in ascending order. This means our first competitor to the stage tonight is the grinning GASTON! Gaston has chosen, hm, a musket as his accessory. Bold choice, monsieur!"

("He is anatomically perfect. He will birth wonderful babies." "Who bring a musket to the beach? Seriously?" "I'm with the hyena on this one. One of those things shot my uncle." "Wonderful legs. He'd look good in hose, don't we agree? Perhaps I'll bring him back to my room and let him try on a pair of mine…" "'E ruffles my feazzers." "But he'd be right on home on Mt. Olympus!" "His heart is cruel." "Agreed, Mama Spruce, but this is about physique. Carpet, what do you think? … Interesting." "I agree with the rug; the musket most _certainly_ oversteps the boundary of 'accessories'.")

"Next, please welcome TARZAN! Not again… TAR— Ah, here he is. Tarzan is… still wearing his loincloth… and has chosen a necklace with a jaguar tooth on it, making this the _most_ amount of clothes he's worn this week! Ha-ha!

("He is not of the right proportions. Hands are too big. His children would not be perfect." "Now he may not talk much, but neither did Mistress Ariel when she first came to the castle, and he is very handsome…" "'E looks very fierce." "In a good way, I would say, Mademoiselle. He would be very entertaining onstage, I think." "He's handsome, don't get me wrong, but a little… bald. I've always said so." "He's all sinew. Not very appetizing." "His heart is kind, but his chin is weak.")

"A royal welcome is in order for PRINCE ERIC! Eric, being a seafaring sort, looks right at home in his swimsuit, doesn't he? Around his neck hangs a sweet puka necklace, dude. Surf's up! Oh… Apparently he collected the shells himself. Very crafty!"

("Oh, look at Master Eric, what a handsome boy he is!" "Yes. Very good hair. Nice babies." "Positively Grecian proportions, I'd say." "I agree, Carpet. Puka shells are never a good idea." "But they're real, he made it himself…" "Never. A good. Idea.")

"Give a roar, not a hiss, for SIMBA! Simba is also new to clothes. He has decorated his tail with a gold charm on the tuft. Three cheers for creativity!"

("Gods above, what wretched deformities! He must never marry!" "Cool off, dummy, he's a _lion_. He's _supposed_ to look like that." "'E looks a leettle flabby." "I have it on good authority that he spent his formative years eating only insects and lazing around." "Dat would explain it." "I've never seen another lion. I can't compare." "You should have seen his father. Mm-mm! I salivate just thinking about him!")

"Let the bell toll for QUASIMODO! Pardon me… QUASI! Quasi is wearing a woven Gypsy talisman on a string around his neck. Hope it brings him enough luck for tonight!"

("_This one_ is human, right? …Well, he's entirely unsuitable. I would pair him maybe with the local gutterwench." "Hephaestus called, he wants his gimmick back." "What a pity, so gnarled when his soul is so pure." "Ladies, don't panic! We asked for the manliest man in the house, and here he is! Quasimodo, the well-endowed man of Notre Dame!" "Mon Dieu, you are right, Monsieur! Look!" "Looks like a sloth clinging to his hips!" "What did you say, Carpet? …You're right! His muscles are unbelievable!" "Wow. Who woulda thunk?")

"Thank you, Quasi. Continuing with our representatives from France, see-voo-play say 'Bawn Joor' to ADAM! Adam completes his ensemble with, how curious, a choker that rather resembles a dog collar, does it not? Ladies, take your time with this one!"

("His chest is rather nice… I suppose." "His back is quite… developed." "His legs… I'm sorry, I can't get around his face. The man is a _woman_." "Madame, I beg to differ. You'll notice—" "_I was speaking figuratively_." "But why he wears a dog collar? _C'est tellement êtrange!_" "The poor lad. Probably trying to make himself look more grown up. What do you think?" "Nice figure. Good breeding. His face is one of high class. He would make a good match." "For who? A man?")

"After this next contestant, you ladies will have to say 'oh rev-oyer' to our fine Frenchmen! Please salute PHOEBUS! Phoebus is also wearing a lovely piece of gypsy jewelry: a leather cuff studded with jewels. Good luck, mawn cap-ee-tan!"

("Wonderful, strong man. He will always bring money for the family." "You should see _him_ in hose. His lady likes him to wear them to bed, if you know what I mean. _C'est parfait_!" "And you've seen this?" "We live in close quarters, Mademoiselle." "Oh, how disgusting." "Carpet, you're right, he _does_ have bangs!" "I always did like a man with a spot of whiskers on the chin…" "'E is old." "My dear, the older a tree, the mightier it grows!" "Regardless, there's no excuse for bangs.")

"Our next contestant has been quite accurately described by some as 'God-like'! Ha-Ha! Without further ado, HERCULES! Hercules' Medallion of the Gods has been reattached to the buckle of his swimsuit, to very stylish results. Will Mt. Olympus be watching him today? We'll have to see!"

("What a guy, what a guy! Takes after his mother, you know." "Very good genes." "Well, the guy is a demi-god, I mean, obviously he's perfect, right?" "_Bizarre_… for an ape you certainly 'ave some strong opinions about human figures, _non_?" "Hey, what are you implying?" "I hope it's true, what they say about the Greeks!" "What do they say?" "You know, how the men get together and…" "Oh, don't be vile! This is a _family_ competition!")

"What a smile on that guy! Well, this next contestant turns down the wattage but _ups_ the intensity! Try not to scream at the sight of KOCOUM! Kocoum rocks a necklace of bear teeth with his swimsuit. Rawr!"

("Another perfect man for the marrying." "You know, you've been saying that a lot. What's your criteria?" "He's still wearing the eagle feather… does that count as two?" "Naw. I talked to Deminda beforehand. Apparently when she told him he was only allowed one accessory, he glared at her so hard she got a sunburn." "Serious or not, he can climb my branches any time!" "…Was that a _tree euphemism_?")

"Well, _I_ certainly feel a little less confident in my own skin! Please give a resounding _ni hao_ to our next contestant, SHANG! Between Shang's rock-hard pectorals dangles a Chinese symbol for perseverance, a helpful reminder to all us civilians! _Xie xie_, Shang!"

("He certainly is—" "We know, perfect for marrying. Jeez." "Well, he is." "Does his face look doughy to you?" "What eez _doughy_, please?" "It's when… forget it." "Carpet, anything to add? No? I'm shocked." "I never thought I'd get bored from overexposure to pectorals… it's like when you come across a dead antelope and keep it to yourself. You think it'll be great, but eventually there's just too many bones in your bowels and…" "Shenzi, sweetie, I think you're alone in that sentiment.")

"Our second-last contestant tonight rocked the previous round with his carefree and friendly manner; just try to resist ALADDIN! Aladdin has kept his trademark fez which, let's be honest, suits him like chickpeas on a pita. Not that I'd call Aladdin a 'PITA'. Ho-Ho!"

("This man is ideal for… apologies, I seemed to have dozed off. Oh! Now this would never do. The boy is thinner than most girls of marrying age!" "Ooh yes, when I was young I always said I could never marry a boy thinner than me… well, look at me size now! Tee hee." "I feel creepy, lookin' at him in a bathing suit, y'know?" "He would make a great dancer." "Oy Frenchy, you are aware that your tongue is literally out of your mouth, right?" "This boy will grow into a mighty oak, but right now he is just a sapling." "Um… guys? Not to make this awkward, but Carpet says he's… malnourished." "…Ohhh.")

"Ladies, you've waited patiently. Last but not least, here he is, England's most glittering expatriate, JOHN SMITH! John sports a leather cuff engraved with what looks like Powhatan Iconography. Let's hope the wind is with him!"

("Does anyone have any problem with him?" "I'm not… I've never been such a fan of bottle blond hair and blue eyes on a dude." "He's not a blond, is he? Oh, my god, he is." "This is most disappointing." "He is devastatingly perfect… _despite_ his hair!" "Now I can't look at anything else!" "_Zut_.")

"That contest was certainly stirring! I know it made _me_ question! Ahem. I would now like to invite Madam Matchmaker to come forward and read out the gentlemen's scores. Madam?"

"Thank you, Mickey. As I call your names, please step forward. Each score is out of 10, remember.

"Gaston: 2. Your choice of accessory was very foolish.

"Tarzan: 5.

"Eric: 7.

"Simba: 4.

"Quasimodo: 6. Heehee. Ahem.

"Adam: 5.

"Phoebus: 6.

"Hercules: 7.

"Kocoum: 9.

"Shang: 8.

"Aladdin: 4.

"And lastly, John Smith. Sigh. Eeeeeeight. Thank you."

"Ho-Ho! Thank _you_. Join us tomorrow afternoon for the Talent showcase, one of the most important events of the Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition! I've been your host, Mickeeeeey Mouse! Ho-Ho!"

* * *

_Review, y'all._

-_Curlz_


	6. Machismo and Mindgames

_So from here on in, I think I'll be posting daily until I run out of chapters. By which point hopefully I will have written more chapters. "But how long could she possibly sustain this?" I hear you ask. "How much could she possibly have written?" Heh. Watch me._

* * *

10:00 PM found Quasi and Phoebus meandering back to their respective rooms. Quasi looked quite bemused. "I still don't understand, though. six. Out of _ten_. Are they mad? Are they blind?"

"Quasi, you really need to stop overanalyzing." Phoebus muffled a yawn. "They're not out to lie, you know."

"But, I mean, six. That's the same as you! That's crazy!"

Any glee Phoebus had felt at his friend's success had evaporated with his energy during Quasi's unending monologue of disbelief. "Yeah, well, apparently we're equal men. Why is that shocking? It's like you haven't even seen your own movie."

"But what could they have seen in me? And don't say 'a kind heart'," Quasi added.

"I wasn't going to. What I was going to say was, huge muscles and healthy-looking hair. It's purely objective." Phoebus paused in thought for a second. "And… Well, I don't mean to speak crudely, but you did sort of surprise everyone in your bathing suit."

"What do you mean?"

Phoebus shook his head. "This is my room. I'm exhausted." He slipped through his door, but poked his head out before it closed. "You know that little triptych of Eden in the cathedral?"

"Of course."

"And you know how I always joke about how poorly endowed Adam is? In the man-parts region?"

"Sigh. Yes."

"Well, in that regard at least, you are _opposite _to Adam. In a good way. Good night." Quasimodo's confused face disappeared behind the wood of the door.

BANG. Phoebus winced. His abrasive roommate had his musket halfway out the window, apparently shooting down bats. "I'm sure that's legal," Phoebus muttered as he removed his shirt.

"How do you feel, pretty-boy? Eh? How do you feel that you could only beat me because they didn't like my _accessory_?"

Phoebus shrugged.

"I'm coming for you. You know that, right? Sleep with one eye open tonight."

Briefly, Phoebus entertained the notion of taking Quasi up on his offer of an empty floor, but decided it wasn't worth tomorrow's back ache. "I'll be sure to."

As Eric toweled off his face, it occurred to him that he had never actually seen Tarzan use the bathroom. He quelled feelings of squeamishness and poked his head out the door. "Hey man, if you need the sink, just let me know, ok?"

Tarzans' mouth was secured firmly around his big toe.

"Right. Ok."

Tarzan rose from his nest and approached Eric, looking childlike and almost pitiable. His whole body was wet, as though drenched in sweat, but Eric surmised that he had licked himself clean, and the squeamishness again began to brew.

"Kala does Tarzan's back."

Eric's jaw dropped. "Ohhhhhh." He stumbled backwards into the bathroom, fumbled about for the shower handle, and started the stream. "Here. Just as good as Kala. Have a good night." Gingerly, so as to avoid brushing with Tarzan's saliva- soaked body, Eric slipped past him and dove under the covers of his bed.

John was almost asleep when his roommate re-entered, and without opening his eyes he knew sleep was now further off than ever.

"I can't believe it – I'm a seven," muttered Hercules. "Only a seven!"

Against his better judgment, John indicated consciousness: "You can't be serious."

"I know it sounds petty, but here's the thing: I'm half-god, right? So when people look at me, they're obviously going to have a warped perception of me, right? Warped for the better, because I'm half-god. So if they're still giving me seven, _even though their perception is warped_, I must be uglier than…"

"You really shouldn't read that deeply into it," muttered John. "You'll just upset yourself needlessly."

"That's easy for you to say; you're an _eight_. Even though you're older. And human."

"What can I say, Hercules? You're… _too_ perfect. It intimidates them."

"_Now_ you're making fun of me."

"Of course I am." John thought for a moment before speaking, praying that his answer would shut Hercules up once and for all. "Women like older men, you know. They like the confidence it comes with. Give it time." He raised an eyebrow, mock-sternly. "Have you been seeking out conversation like we discussed?"

Hercules nodded raptly. "I went into town today and chatted with all sorts of people."

"Good. Excellent. Keep it up." With that, John rolled over and feigned sleep.

Predictably, Kocoum was already standing sentry by the window when Aladdin entered. Gingerly, he coughed. "Hey, well done out there tonight." Kocoum turned his head to stare at him and Aladdin began to chatter nervously. "Nine out of ten, you know. That's awesome. First place. Yeah. It was fun. Did you have fun? It's been fun so far."

Kocoum nodded his head deeply in acknowledgement and turned back to the window. Aladdin sighed with relief.

"I'm just going to pop into the shower before bed. Or, do you want it first? I'm not tired. Please don't let me hog it. If you're tired…"

Kocoum silenced him with a raised hand and pointed towards the bathroom. Again, Aladdin sighed. "Good. Good. I'll be quick. I promise."

Aladdin was true to his word; he didn't suppose he'd ever bathed more quickly in his entire life.

Meanwhile, after encountering one another during a walk in the grounds, Simba and Shang were pacing down the hallway, chatting easily. "So you've _never_ seen a lion before?"

Shang considered his answer. "Well, not in person. But I've seen plenty of dragons."

"_Dragons_!"

"In parades and on holidays a line of people cover themselves with a huge dragon costume. The head has this great gold mane. It was the first thing I thought of, actually, when I saw you."

Simba considered it for a moment. "Dragons are fierce, I guess. You're roommates with Quasi, right? Seems like a timid kind of guy."

Shang shrugged. "He's basically a kid. Easygoing. Rather religious. How about you? How's…" Shang lowered his voice. "How's Adam? He seems, no offense, a bit crazy."

Simba shook his head grimly as he slipped into his room.

He'd prepared himself to find Adam doing any number of things: testing out Simba's bed of pillows, for instance, or possibly staring raptly at the program roster. He was certainly _not_ prepared to find Adam in front of the mirror, shoulders hunched about his ears, hands gnarled, teeth bared, growling as though he meant to frighten his reflection. Simba was stunned into silence. After a few seconds, Adam paused and turned slowly. Their eyes met.

Without saying a word, Simba fled into the bathroom. Mentally, he placed a checkmark beside _zoophile_.

* * *

_By-the-by, at this time I'd like to shamelessly plug my recent Hunchback fic, entitled "The Meatpuppeteer". I'm rather fond of it._

_'Til tomorrow,_

_-Curlz_


	7. Dance Class!

The next morning, the contestants and officials had gathered again in the Ochre Room by 8:00. The air was certainly less tense this morning than it had been the last. The men for the most part chatted amiably. Even Kocoum was speaking; he and Shang were discussing warfare tactics. Gaston, who had irritated all of them the previous morning with his arrogance and machismo, had taken to casting threatening glances around the table, a tactic easily ignored and therefore preferred. After a few minutes, Deminda O'Kelly took the thirteenth chair.

"Hey boys, how is everyone?"

A murmur of general assent rose around the table.

"Good. Today's going to be very busy so I'll ask you all to listen very carefully. This is your itinerary." Schedules on garish Mickey-themed stationary were passed around the table. "You'll notice that we're beginning rehearsals for the group dance showcase immediately following breakfast in the studio. I see you've all worn your comfortable clothes. Thank you for thinking ahead. Rehearsal will run from 9:00 to 12:00, at which time you will leave to prepare for your talent showcase.

"I know you've all heard me say this a thousand times, but I cannot stress it enough: please, _please _keep your acts under seven minutes _at most_. The talent showcase will begin promptly at 2:00 in the main stage. This means you must be present behind the curtain at 1:00 _at the latest_. This is _very important. _If all goes according to plan, we should be finished with that by 4:00.

"You will then report back to the studio by 4:30 for your second rehearsal. I know I don't need to tell you how important it is that you be _on time_. You have very little rehearsal time, so you will want to make the most of it. This rehearsal will run for two hours, no longer, no shorter.

"The short answer interviews will begin at 8:00, which means you must report to the stage in formal wear – that is, your best attire – by 7:30. Hear that? 7:30. Anyone not present at 7:30 will have me hunting them down with a trident and a will to kill." She glared for a few seconds, until everyone was absolutely assured of her sincerity, and then referred back to her itinerary. "Well, it's quarter to nine, and everyone seems to be finished, so if you'll leave your plates as they are, I'm going to ask you to please follow me."

The studio was of the typical jazzercise genre. A pile of exercise balls rested in one corner, a stack of light free weights in another, and a mirrored wall reflected the men's unwilling faces. Deminda allowed them to file in, and then shut the door, leaving them apparently without an instructor.

Ten seconds passed. "Does _anyone_ here know anything about dancing?" asked Phoebus. Several men shook their heads.

A slight disturbance in the exercise balls caught their eye. One trembled, then bounced, and then began to roll towards the middle of the room, stopping dead center. It distended, distorted, and then, with an almighty rip, the thin form of Clopin emerged.

"BONJOUR!" he sang, following that with a back flip that landed him firmly in front of the mirror. "Are we ready to _danser_?" Out of nowhere, a bizarre techno remix of "When You Wish Upon A Star" began to blare through the loudspeakers. "We will begin with a warm up! Everybody, left hip! Right hip! Left! Right! _À gauche! À droit!_ Ready, and, thrust forward! And back! Forward! And back! _En avant! En arriere! _Ready, and, aroooound!"

The men copied Clopin's movements, their faces slowly turning red.

* * *

Criminally short, but they can't all be winners. And besides, stuff it. You're getting a long-ass update tomorrow.

And then all marvelous hell will break loose. Ooh, I can't wait to publish what I have in store!

All the best,

-Curlz


	8. Talent or, Laws of the 2D Universe

"Maybe you should tell jokes for your talent! What is your talent?" "It's kind of like a, like a surprise? But don't worry, it's nothing embarrassing, like... baton twirling... heh heh heh." "BATONS ARE AWESOME. DIE, BITCH."

* * *

"Welcome all to the Grand Showcase Theatre of the beautiful Evafta Hotel and Convention Centre, where dreams live happily ever after, or something! I'm you're host, Mickeeeeey Mouse! We are here, of course, to watch my personal favourite event, the TALENT SHOWCASE of the Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition!

"The judging for this event focuses on the sheer Disney entertainment value of each act. Because we are, of course, in the business of entertaining, this event is one of the most important of the entire event, worth 25% of the total score.

"And now, a round of applause for our illustrious judging panel, led by a whirlwind of a woman, the tenacious TERKANA!"

"Call me Terk."

"And with that, allow me to present our first contestant, GASTON!"

Grinning toothily, Gaston strode out onto the stage empty-handed. He paused, posed, and then turned to address the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen;

"When I was a lad I ate four dozen eggs every morning to help me get large." Here, he paused, flexed his biceps, and then his triceps.

"And now I'm here to demonstrate to you all the benefits of such commitment to a goal. I hope that, when I am through, you yourself will be inspired to attempt such a fitness regimen in the hopes of one day having a figure that nearly meets mine in unflawed virility.

"Observe." He fell to the stage, executed a few one-armed push-ups, switched, and straightened himself, unruffled.

"But strength such as mine may also be used for practicality." He motioned offstage, and two black-clad technicians entered, carrying with them a simple wooden bench. "Behold, a simple wooden bench." The technicians scampered off.

"It is a bench you might indeed recognize as having in your own house. Ladies, when it comes time to clean under it, do you find yourself straining to push it a few inches across the floor?"

Swiftly, he hoisted the chair into the air over his head. As his banter continued, he switched it from hand to hand, tossed it up a foot, caught it, swung it in a wide arc, and set it down. The audience applauded politely.

"But that's not all, ladies and gentlemen. No, that is most certainly not all. I will need a volunteer." He descended into and emerged from the audience, holding the hand of a rather flustered young woman. "See, women love to be _swept_ off their feet." Easily, he caught her up in a standard "just married" pose. "They love _high_ romance." He thrust her above his head, where she uttered a small cry and looked generally thrilled. "But most of all, they love a man who can _dance._" He caught her under her armpits and swung her around twice before settling her gently on her feet. Again, applause issued forth.

"But, gentlemen, as we know, it is most important to play the field." He summoned two similar-looking girls from the audience and had them position themselves side-by-side on the bench. "If you want to juggle, you need to develop the arms." In one smooth motion, Gaston hoisted the female-laden bench above his head, transferred the load to one arm, and flexed with the other. "As you see, I've got biceps to spare." The girls gasped and giggled appropriately as the audience burst into applause.

Gaston set the bench down and caddishly ignored the girls' blushing and stammering compliments; they each appeared notably dejected as they reclaimed their seats in the audience.

"Thank you, thank you. Remember, no one does it like Gaston. Thank you." He once again heaved the bench aloft and carried it off waiter-like with one hand.

"Thank _you_, Gaston, for that very short but very sweet demonstration. With that, get ready for our next contestant, SIMBA!"

Simba affected rather a shy aura as he padded onto the stage. "Hi. I'm Simba.

"What's the difference between a hyena and a rock? One is grey and useless with an IQ of nothing, and the other is a rock."

The laughter began softly, unsure, but it gained momentum until the entire auditorium was positively cackling their appreciation. Simba appeared to gain confidence.

"No, seriously, how can you tell the difference? One will never stab you in the back, and the other is a hyena!

"How do you drive a hyena crazy? Put it in a round cave and tell it to lie in a corner!"

The laughter was much more immediate here.

"How do you make a hyena's eyes twinkle? Shine a flashlight in its ear!

"How do you make a hyena laugh on Saturday? Tell it a joke on Wednesday!

"What do you call a band of hyenas standing ear to ear? A wind tunnel!

"Why can't hyenas catch birds? Because they try to chase them off a cliff!

"What's the difference between a smart hyena and Bigfoot? People claim to have seen Bigfoot.

"What do you call an attractive hyena? Adopted!"

And so it continued. The audience loved every minute. At the end of his set, Simba laughed nervously and jogged off to warm applause.

"What do you call a funny feline? Simba! Heh… heh… Our next performer looks a treat; please welcome ALADDIN!"

Aladdin entered backwards, dragging with him two large baskets of fruit. He winked at the audience. "Hungry?" He plucked an apple from one of the baskets and began to roll it up and down his hands; it appeared to defy gravity, or otherwise be magnetically bonded to his skin. He gestured with his head towards an audience member in the front row, rolled the apple over one shoulder, and used his elbow to kick it into her lap. The audience applauded.

"But, as you know, one at a time doesn't go very fast." With that, he began again with two apples, playing each of them over his hands before flicking them into two more audience members' laps.

Then he plucked three more apples and juggled them in the air before flicking them into the house. More fruit was added, more audience members fed. Then, bananas were introduced, spinning in the air like scimitars. These were flicked up to the mezzanine, and the spectators up there cheered at the acknowledgement.

Finally, the sense of a grand finale hung in the air. "I'm going to need a volunteer." Aladdin descended into the audience, as had Gaston, and emerged with a boy of about eleven. "I'm going to start with this apple. Whenever you feel like it, start throwing more fruit at me. Doesn't matter which. See if you can trip me up."

The baskets emptied quickly. Aladdin's straining hands kept aloft seven fruits: three apples, four bananas. "Ready everyone?" he called. "Keep your eyes up and your hands ready!" One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. All delivered right into laps of the back row. The applause was deafening. Aladdin grinned, bowed clumsily, and jogged off the stage with his empty baskets.

"I most certainly am stuffed after that display – stuffed with AMAZEMENT! Ho-ho! But I'm sure I have room for our next very special contestant, TARZAN!"

A forest of vines was lowered from the ceiling, until the bottoms grazed the floor. Tarzan entered with his characteristic unassuming posture. Soft bongo music began to play through the speakers. At once, his body became inhuman as he scaled the vines like an ant on a vertical wall. About halfway between the stage and the flies, he entwined his ankles in the forest and leaned all the way back, hanging upside down in the air. The audience gasped and applauded.

From there, it was an aerial silk routine like no other; his muscles stretched and strained with beautiful fluidity as he manipulated the vines. Every so often, he would wrap a vine around his waist, let go, and tumble ten or twenty feet down, only to be caught by a tentative loop around his knee or elbow. He somersaulted, twirled, slid, and swung as though his real home was there, in the vines, instead of on the ground. The bongo music added to the magic. The room was rapt.

Finally, as the drumming reached fever pitch, Tarzan's graceful and mildly menacing form burst forth from the vine patch, fell ten feet to the ground, and landed noiselessly on his feet. The drumming ceased. Without a word, he left the stage. The audience remained silent, unsure, for seconds; then, they burst into applause.

"Well, that was a veritable Cirque du Surprise! Thank you, Tarzan! Put your hands together for our next performer, ADAM!"

Adam entered in a casual morning coat with a starched collar, camel-coloured pants and black boots. A grand piano was wheeled in from the opposite side. Adam bowed, muttered a note of thanks, and took his place on the piano bench. "This is an original composition of mine, and its inaugural performance. I call it 'Metamorphosis." He flourished his fingers for a few seconds, laid them across the board, and began to play.

In the audience, Alan Menken sat up with a start. "Oh no he fucking didn't," he hissed.

"Calm down," said the man to his right. "Everyone knows it's yours."

"Do they, Howard? Do they?"

"Well, it's got your name on it at the beginning of the damn movie. And they've all seen the movie; otherwise why else would they be here?"

"Ok, fine," said Alan. "Bearing in mind that people who read credits is already a very small Venn diagram circle, and people who give a damn about movie scores is another, smaller circle, how many people do you honestly think fall into both categories, and of those people, how many are here tonight? I mean, jesus, all he's doing is smooshing together The Prologue, The West Wing, and The Transformation. It's all the same leitmotif, it's not like he went and did something innovative…"

"Calm," said Howard Ashman. "We're the musicians. He's a 2D character, for god's sake. Let him have his fun."

Alan grinned fondly at his friend. "I'm so glad you can be alive for things like this." Howard returned the smile and clapped his friend on the shoulder. Then they both appraised Adam's performance and their grins turned into awkward grimaces.

"Ah… wow," said Howard. "He really likes to, er, sway a lot, doesn't he?"

"Holy crap," said Alan.

"Well now, that certainly trebled _my _clef! Ho-ho! Get ready for another musical masterpiece from QUASIMO! That was it, right? …Just Quasi? Dammit."

Clearly, Quasi had grown to become a crowd favourite; his initial applause was the loudest thus far. Sheepishly, he stood center stage and waited for everybody to calm down.

"Good afternoon, everybody. I don't really have a talent, so I asked my friends what I should do, and they told me to do what I'm best at. So I figured I'd be best at what I did everyday, right?" He paused, almost as though he was waiting for the audience to assent. As he spoke, a large system of giant iron bells and ropes was lowered from the flies, perhaps eight in total of varying sizes. The ropes grazed the ground behind Quasi. "I'm just going to show you how I do the bells every morning. Well, sort of. This is a smaller bell set. I couldn't move all the bells from the cathedral. Sorry. But I'll try to make it sound good anyway."

Several audible awww's issued forth from the audience. Hesitantly, Quasimodo stared at the bells, as though making a plan; then, with alarming certainty, he seized one of the ropes with both hands and pulled. _Bongggg Bongggg Bongggg_. The sound continued as Quasi scampered around and set another one in motion: _BingBingBingBing. _The resulting major fifth chord was very pleasing to the ear. For a time, Quasi maintained those two; then, in a feat of acrobatics that made everyone go "How?", he leapt up into the smaller bell and wrapped himself around the clapper while subsequently kicking into motion a medium-sized bell, stopping the former and starting the second. A new chord emerged and Quasi raced to maintain the two.

And so it continued, for five captivating minutes. New chords were created; new sounds emerged. Quasi bounded from one bell to another, silencing them, starting them, or changing the speed with which they clanged by placing his feet on the lip and using his weight to change the momentum. The music was beautiful enough, but Quasi's artistry, his utter comfort and understanding of the giants, was awe-inspiring

Finally, one by one, he silenced the bells until the last one, the "do", remained; this he allowed to fade out until silence resumed. He shrugged sheepishly as the audience burst into applause.

"I could have done better with a full set, but you get the idea."

"One more time for the ever-modest QUASI! Certainly rang _my _bell. And now, the last of our distinguished French, the fantastic PHOEBUS!"

Phoebus' smile was quite affable as he entered. A microphone rose from the floor. He carried with him a roughly hewn wooden string instrument resembling a primitive lute, and he tuned it nervously as he spoke.

"Hi everyone. I'm going to play and sing you a couple of songs here. I hope you enjoy it. I've never performed in public before, so I hope it goes well.

"This song is one that I've known all my life. We used to sing it and dance to it in the square. Here goes. Ahehehehehehem."

As a short intro issued forth from the lute, Phoebus' comfort with the instrument became clear, as though he were revisiting a childhood toy. His head nodded in time the lazy waltz before he opened his mouth to sing.

_Sur la pont d'Avignon_

_L'on y danse, l'on y danse_

_Sur la pont d'Avignon_

_L'on y danse tout en rond._

_Les beaux messiers font comme ça_ (Phoebus executed a little hop and posed leaning back on his left foot.)

_Et puis encore comme ça_ (He hopped again and posed on his right foot.)

_Les belles femmes font comme ça _(Here, he garnered laughter by pressing his knees together and sticking out his right hip.)

_Et puis encore comme ça _(He popped out his left hip, winked, and blew a kiss.)

_Sur la pont d'Avignon _(As he warmed up to the crowd, he began to sway, then to jig.)

_L'on y danse, l'on y danse_

_Sur la pont d'Avignon_

_L'on y danse tout le monde! En rond!_

_Les militaries font comme ça_

_Et puis encore comme ça. _(Here he marched in a rather stiff manner and gazed disapprovingly at the audience.)

_Les musiciens font comme ça_

_Et puis alors, juste comme ça!_ (He contrasted that by swaying drunkenly on the spot, amusing the crowd to no end.)

As he repeated the _pont d'Avignon_ chorus for the last time, rather solemnly, his rich and surprisingly melodic voice evoked yearning for home and nostalgia for the simple days of childhood. As the final plucked notes died, audience members sighed; some even wiped their eyes.

"Thank you. This next one is one I learned more recently. It's a traditional Gypsy tune. My wife is a gypsy, and she taught it to me, so I'm dedicating it to her. It's a travelling song. Ahehehehehem."

The tune to this song was slower and much more somber; it meandered at will like the people who created it.

_En allant, en allant_

_Sur la route, c'est rude, c'est longue._

_J'ai rencontré toi, ma belle Roma_

_Où viens-tu de venir, pourquoi?_

_Avec les tente, pourquoi, ma belle Roma?_

The verses continued, as did the emotion carried with the song. Phoebus himself appeared slightly lost while singing it, apparently forgetting he was being watched. As the song faded out, the audience burst into rousing applause. Phoebus jerked to attention, startled. He leaned into the microphone as he regained his bearings, stammered out a "thank-you-hope-you-enjoyed-it", and hurried offstage.

"Thank you, Phoebus! Pardon me… I seem to have something in my eye. Our next performer is also here to show off his musical style. I give you: ERIC!"

Eric entered once again in his usual seafaring attire, twirling a wooden pipe over his fingers. He too approached the microphone, but forewent the speech in favour of a simple nod of acknowledgement. Motioning for the audience to follow him, he began to clap rhythmically, and when he became accustomed to the beat, he raised the pipe to his lips. The audience, thrilled at being included in the act, fought to maintain perfect time as an upbeat jig filled the auditorium. Eric's fingers moved so fast they seemed to be wiggling at random, and soon, to the delight of the spectators, he began to jig along with his accompaniment.

For two full minutes, the audience was rapt. And then humanity's natural lack of rhythm kicked in and their clapping began to speed up. Eric furrowed his brow and fought to keep time. Then some people in the audience tried to slow down, which made everything worse and now there was no rhythm, just a roomful of people clapping at random. Here, Eric just went "Screw it" and played to his own rhythm. Then the _entire_ audience was off time, so eventually everybody stopped clapping, and then suddenly it was silent and it was just a guy jumping around on stage with a flute in his mouth. Which would have been fine, but Eric was following three good musicians, one of them an acrobat to boot, and he was getting desperate to please.

It was with that in mind that he attempted a one-handed cartwheel while playing. Which he failed at. And when he crash-landed, the flute was accidentally shoved gruesomely down his throat.

"ANIMEDIC!" Deminda screeched as she ran out on stage. Eric was laying there twitching and gagging and, improbably, still playing his flute. A team of AniMedics in polyester pants and nerdy short-sleeved shirts ran on stage waving pencils, rulers, paints, and the latest in portable CGI technology. They formed a little circle around Eric, hiding him from view, and when they backed away Eric clamoured to his feet, clearing his newly-restored throat. The audience clapped for him as he made his sheepish exit, but the noise of their applause couldn't mask the uproarious laughter from his competitors backstage.

"Give it up for Eric for gettin', uh, jiggy wit' it! Our next performer is as brawny as he is benevolent. I give you HERCULES!"

The microphone descended back into the stage, to be replaced by a pommel horse. Hercules was wearing his accustomed leather tunic and blue cape. His eyebrows were contorted in some ridiculous attempt to make himself look smart.

"Good afternoon, everybody. For my act, I will be exhibiting a demonstration of the pommel horse. But first, some light background information. The pommel horse was originally conceptualized as a device with which to practice fluid mounting and dismounting a horse. However, its potential as a more transferable exercise device quickly became clear. Use of the pommel horse is as beneficial as it is entertaining: it tones each and every one of the bodies' muscles. Some of the moves which you will see are…"

And on it went. There were charts. There were laser pointers. At one point he even wheeled out a teaching skeleton. It was really, really bad.

Finally, after anticipation had dwindled to nothing, he mounted the horse and performed for his remaining two minutes. It was good, impressive, and he finished the routine by jumping so high that he fully disappeared into the flies for a few seconds, but the audience knew they would never be able to forgive him for making them sit through a lecture.

"Thank you, Hercules, for that positively Olympian effort! Hope I never run into _you_ at the gym! Our next performer brings a little taste of China with him; _wo de peng you _SHANG!"

Shang entered solemnly, carrying with him a spear and a sword. He wore a loose robe, snug pants and bare feet. Gently, he laid his weapons and his robe by the side of the stage, approached center, and bowed. "I am general Li Shang! Servant of the Emperor! It is my honour to demonstrate for you today my _kung fu_!" With an almighty battle cry, he set himself into a fighting stance, and then threw himself into a rapid routine of punches, kicks, leaps, and ducks. The intensity shocked the audience. Shang's limbs were a blur, his body seeming to disappear and reappear on opposite sides of the stage. The tension was such that one nearly forgot he fought no one.

Quite before the audience grew accustomed to his cadence, he snatched up the spear and began to spin it menacingly. The deathly wheel changed directions with no effort, and visions of Shang's hand slipping and an audience member getting shish kebabed to their seat danced in everyone's head. Then, the spinning stopped, and Shang focused on smacking and jabbing the spear into his imaginary opponent. It was difficult to say which method looked the most fearsome.

Finally, with a rush of anticipation, he took up the sword with an ominous _zing!_ Though Shang performed without music, the _whooshing_ of the sword was as melodious as a flute and punctuated with his stomps and battle cries. The excitement built, strengthened, and reached fever pitch—

And it was over. Shang laid the sword next to the spear, bowed, and exited. The stage technicians scurried out and cleared the area. The applause was comprised mostly of guffaws of disbelief.

"Thank you… Shang. Whoo… I need time… to catch my… breath. Our next… ah… ah… ahem. The hugely anticipated JOHN SMITH!"

Immediately, each man in the room covered their ears as female voices rose in a chorus of caterwauling. "_John! Johhhhhn! I love you John!" _Women wept, clutched their hearts, and grabbed each other's hands as the ever-confident John Smith strode center stage, hair waving in the nonexistent wind. Two vertical wooden poles rose from the stage about five feet apart from each other. John carried two loops of rope over his shoulder.

"Good afternoon, everyone." He set the ropes down and calmly waited until the audience quieted. "This afternoon I'm going to lead you through a knot tying demonstration. It's a skill that's especially important on the high sea, but applicable to every day life, as well. You can tie your canoe to a tree, for instance, or keep a tricky door shut. You can even control a hyper dog."

It became evident that anything out of John Smith's mouth would receive an ovation of equal magnitude when the room erupted in cheering at the mention of a hyper dog.

"Here's the first one, the basic." He looped a length of rope around one of the poles and twisted it into a basic slipknot. "This is your basic slipknot. Around the pole, past the rope, up, back, and down through the hole. Pull it tight and… there you go!"

Burst of applause.

John filled the full seven minutes like this. After the slipknot, he ran through the reef, the bowline, and dozens of others, each one receiving the same disproportionate applause. At the end, he began to roll the rope with the pride of a successful teacher. "Would anybody like to come up and give it a shot?"

The auditorium became a blowfish as hands spiked up throughout the room. John signaled to a young girl in the front row, and she bounded forth, gloating at her companions. She trembled slightly at standing so close to John, who remained apparently rather ignorant of his effect. "What's your name?"

"Mmmmmarcia."

"Okay, Marcia. What's your favourite knot?"

Marcia blinked twice, very slowly. "Bunny ears?"

John laughed. "I don't remember showing that one. How does it go?"

He handed her the rope, and she tied a floppy bow around the stake. John Smith strode over to inspect it. "It's very pretty, but it undoes quite easily, doesn't it?"

Marcia giggled and blushed. Standing on tiptoe, she whispered something in John's ear. He frowned, confused. "Why would you want me to tie you up?"

The audience shrieked with laughter, and John blushed. He gestured a triumphant Marcia back towards her seat and exited, eyes resolutely averted from the audience.

"Thank you, John! I think we're all in knots now. W-o-w. Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's the moment we've all been waiting for: KOCOUM!"

A beautiful stuffed stag was lowered from the flies on a wire. Kocoum walked out onto the stage with a bow and a quiver of arrows. Without much ceremony, the stage began to swing over the stage. Kocoum tracked it and fired, hitting the side of the beast. He did this a few more times to great applause. The stag was always in motion; flying, yes, but some trick of engineering had caused it to move in a way that was almost lifelike.

What was terrifying was when the beast came to be suspended over the audience. Here, there was a good deal more screaming and genuine fear of death intermingled with the applause, but Kocoum got through the whole thing without a single miss. The stage dangled inches from the heads of the audience, soared past all the balconies, and changed direction with no warning, and yet every arrow Kocoum aimed lodged itself firmly in the pelt.

Many people discovered religion that day, each in their own way. Some reckoned that Kocoum's deities must be the most effective and called up their local band elders on the spot to inquire about "converting to Indian." (These people were largely hung up on.) As for Deminda… well, she hissed the words "Jesus Christ" so many times that the words started to sound like nonsense to her ears, but when it was over and nobody had died, she resolved to go to church with her grandmother that very Sunday. (She forgot.)

"Well, thank you very much, Kocoum," said Mickey, and all the still-alive audience members couldn't have agreed more. "And that concludes the performances for this event. The judges will now deliberate.

"Say, we really should get Snow White in on the judging. After all, she is the _fairest one of all_! Ho-Ho! Ahem.

"Are we ready? No? Hm. What kind of car does my girlfriend drive? A Minnie-van! Aha… ha… Are we ready yet? Good! Terk, you have the floor."

"Thanks, Mick. All right, guys, make a line, make a like. Guess we'll start at the beginning.

"Gaston, man, you're cocky. And I still don't like you. But it worked for you here. Sorta. 12 points.

"Simba, you're real funny. Most of us thought so. Unfortunately… one of the judges thought your jokes were, ahem, 'base and bigoted'. Sorry. 10 points.

"Aladdin, thanks for the snack! That was awesome, buddy. 21 points.

"Tarzan, buddy, you did good! Just like we prac… I mean, yeah, you did good. 24 points.

"Adam… cool song, bro! Really original. I don't know how you come up with this stuff." In the audience, Howard Ashman placed a soothing hand on Alan Menken's shoulder. "Thing is, your performance style kinda looks like a cross between Ray Charles and a cobra. 19 points.

"Quasi, that was incredible, y'know? You gotta be more confident because you're amazing. 25 points!

"Phoebus. I laughed, I cried. Well, not actually, but I wanted to. You just gotta practice more, is all, you're really raw. 20 points.

"Eric… you're still real pretty to look at. And for what it's worth, you totally kept playing the whole time. How did you do that! 15 points.

"Hercules, you're real good. I like watching you on the horse. And thank you. First I was kinda bitter, you now, about being a gorilla and not being able to go to college, but if that's what college is like then keep me away from it! 17 points.

"Shang, man, whoa. I was scared for my life with you on the stage. It was awesome! 23 points.

"And now we have John Smith. You… tied _knots_ for your talent. Knots. Knots? Really? Knots? Ah… long story short, 11 points.

"Kocoum. …Dude. 22 points.

"Thanks, Mick."

"Thank _you_, Terk! Well, that was a fantastic show; I've been your host, Mickeeey Mouse! Join us here tonight at this spot for our SHORT ANSWER INTERVIEW! Also, the Evafta Hotel and Convention Center where all your dreams come true."

Clopin backflipped onto the stage. "_Messieurs_, I believe you are MINE for the next two hours! _Suivez-moi_! HahaHA!"

Like whipped schoolboys, the men filed off behind a cartwheeling Clopin.

* * *

I really like this chapter. I revamped it right before uploading it - first time I've made edits to it in over a year, I think, and the whole thing was improved tremendously.

I guess I should dedicate this chapter to Alan Menken and the late Howard Ashman? It's a little weird... I don't know them, obviously, but I really love their work and I was in _Little Shop of Horrors_ in high school... Well, Mr. Menken (if you're reading this [yeah right]) and Mr. Ashman (you're definitely reading this, aren't you?), this one's for you. I hope you, um, like it. Because I like your stuff. I like your stuff a whole lot.

-Curly


	9. The Ladies

Esmeralda referred to her invitation and she walked barefoot through the Evafta. The Sunshine Room, apparently, was her eventual destination. It made sense that the hostess would pick the cheeriest-sounding room in the hotel, if not the world. A woman by the name of "Belle" had invited the wives and girlfriends of the contestants in the cheeriest terms possible: about half the words were "dream", "princess'", or "love". Supposing that it might be nice to sleep in a proper bed for a few nights, Esmeralda had readily accepted.

Five women had already made themselves at home by the time she stepped through the door. One was clad in an expensive-looking pink day dress, but her brown and unfashionably short hair was tied into a no-nonsense ponytail. Her face was a perfect heart, and even by Disney standards her eyes were huge. Upon Esmeralda's entrance, she stood and approached with a big smile. "You must be Esmeralda," she chirped. "I'm Belle. It's so lovely to meet you."

"You too, Belle. Thanks for the invitation."

Belle laughed demurely. "It was my pleasure. Let me introduce you to the other ladies. Ladies!" Four other women looked up from their conversations. Esmeralda smiled hesitantly. "This is Ariel," she began, indicating a very young redhead in a green hoop-skirted gown. Ariel smiled and bounced her shoulders a few times with childlike energy. "This is Jasmine." Jasmine, a petite Arabian beauty, bowed her head slightly in greeting; she wore a blue suit that exposed her flat stomach. "This is Pokey." A gorgeous and poised Native American woman with waist length black hair flinched.

"Pocahontas," she amended, inclining her head towards Esmeralda.

Belle giggled. "She hates it when I call her Pokey. And finally, this is Mulan." A spunky-looking Chinese girl with surprisingly short hair bowed, her demure gesture in contrast with the feisty expression on her face.

Esmeralda nodded, feeling mildly uncomfortable. Clearly, all these women were friends, or had at least met before. "It's nice to meet you all."

"This is the Sunshine Room, right?" called a voice from the door. "I'm looking for a 'Belle'." Another gorgeous brunette entered in a draping magenta dress.

"That's me! Megara, I presume?" said Belle as she gestured the statuesque woman forward.

"Hi Belle, call me 'Meg'."

"Ok, Meg." Belle once again facilitated the introductions. Conversation resumed among the five, and Esmeralda edged closer to Meg.

Meg smiled, and then indicated the rest of the women, who were chatting like schoolgirls. "What did we do, miss the orientation? They seemed to have chummed up pretty fast."

"I think they knew each other before."

Meg nodded. "That explains it. The question is, how?"

"I have no idea…"

The door opened with a bang. "Oh, I'm sorry for intruding!" Another brunette in a short, crude pelt dress had just all but toppled through the entrance. Her posh, lilting accent contrasted with her wild hair and attire. "This _is_ the sunshine room, am I right? And you all, you're here with the Mr. Disney Ren…"

"Jane!" Belle ran forward to meet her. Jane smiled tentatively.

"Yes, hello. Er… have we met?"

"No. I'm Belle." Once again, introductions were exchanged.

Esmeralda leaned over to Meg. "Is it just me, or do they look weirdly similar?"

"Do they?"

Jane gravitated towards Esmeralda and Meg, and Esmeralda realized that Jane and Meg looked very similar as well. That is, Meg looked like Jane's supermodel sister, or Jane looked like Meg's cute athletic sister. And Belle looked like the porcelain doll version of them both. It was a little weird.

"Hi! Hellooo! I'm so sorry, ladies, you'll have to give me your names one more." Esmeralda and Meg did so, and Jane blushed. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm dreadfully forgetful." She gazed towards the painted ceiling. "It _is _such a shock to be indoors again, not to mention in such beautiful doors as this."

"Now that's a remark you have to elaborate on."

"Ooooh!" Esmeralda decided she quite liked Jane and her haphazardness; such a relief from the poise of the other women. "I live in the jungle! Yes, I live actually with a tribe of gorillas. I'm married to their leader." Meg and Esmeralda grinned, and Jane furiously backtracked. "That is to say, I'm not married to a _gorilla_. No. I'm not even really married, I guess. He's a man, a human man, raised by gorillas. Yes." Then Jane's eyes widened in fear. "Please don't think ill of me for not being married, though. You can imagine, in the middle of the jungle I had little choice."

"Well, if your true love lives in the jungle, I say it's a miracle that you found each other," said Esmeralda. "How could any God fault you for that?"

Jane nodded appreciatively. Meg shrugged. "Naw, I'm sure the Gods wouldn't mind. They put on a stiff show but they are just people, after all."

Esmeralda and Jane were stunned into silence for a few moments while Meg regarded them with a sultry little half-smile. Then, Jane laughed a laugh that matched her crazy appearance more than her accent, straight from her belly, and soon all three girls were laughing, glad to be part of a more interesting group than the other cliquey wenches.

"Is this the sunshine room?" The voice came from somewhere around their hips, and they looked down, startled, to discover a majestic looking lioness peering up at them through intelligent eyes.

Meg recovered first. "Yes, it is. Hi, I'm Megara. Meg. And you?"

"You must be Nala," said Belle, who had predictably materialized by their sides. "Well, now that we're all here, why don't we get to know each other a little bit?"

Jane stared after Nala. "Blimey," she whispered. "A talking lion. Oh, Daddy will be _thrilled_…"

"Ladies, why don't we go around the circle and share a little something about ourselves? Ariel, would you like to start?"

Ariel giggled. "Naturally. Well, my name is Ariel. I'm a plucky young mermaid with a deep love of all things human." Belle leaned over and whispered something in her ear. "Oh, sorry. I should say, I'm a plucky young _former_ mermaid."

Meg, Esmeralda, Jane and Nala all whispered, "What?"

"Well, you all know me," said Belle. "I'm a plucky young woman with a deep love of literature and dreams of adventure. Jasmine?"

"Hi, everyone." Jasmine's voice was chirpy and pleasant. "I'm a plucky young princess who dreams of marrying for love. Which I managed to do."

"Nala, your turn."

Nala looked very self-conscious, which was unsurprising – she certainly stood out in this room. "Hello. I'm Nala – obviously. I'm a plucky young lioness who would go to great lengths to help her pride."

"Me? I'm Pocahontas. I'm a plucky young princess from Turtle Island."

"New England," Belle interjected helpfully. Pocahontas visibly bristled.

"That may be what you call it, but it's neither New nor England." Belle blushed. "As I was saying, I long for independence and I fight for peace between the new settlers and us natives."

"How old are you?" asked Jane suddenly.

"Nineteen summers."

"You're nineteen years old and you're involved in _hostile_ _politics_?" Jane sat back and sighed with disbelief. "That's incredibly impressive."

Pocahontas grinned, flattered. "It's my path, I guess."

Esmeralda was on Pocahontas' left, so she spoke next. "I'm Esmeralda. I'm a plucky young gypsy with a heart of gold and an unfortunate tendency to cause riots." She smiled and shrugged, and the other ladies grinned uncertainly. Political dissidents weren't really a _thing_ in the Disney world.

Meg jumped in to fill the gap. "I'm Meg. I'm a plucky young-ish femme fatale with a juicy past."

"Hi. I'm Mulan, a plucky young Chinese girl who disguised herself as a man and went to war to protect her father."

A bit of silence followed. Jane, missing her cue, was staring at Mulan in amazement. She appeared to feel the eyes on her, and shook herself. "Oh! Sorry! Your lives are all quite extraordinary, I got a bit distracted. I'm a plucky young naturalist who fell in love with the leader of a band of gorillas while on a research expedition." Then she gasped. "Oh, no! He's not a gorilla. He's a man, raised by gorillas. He's quite intelligent, I assure you."

"I'm sure he is," said Belle. She probably didn't mean to sound condescending, but it was hard to make those words sound anything but.

Esmeralda broke the silence first. "Wait, so _you_ two…" she pointed to Jasmine and Pocahontas, "…are princesses?"

"Oh no, not just us," said Jasmine hastily. "Belle and Ariel too."

"I wouldn't exactly put myself in the same category as you and Belle and Ariel," said Pocahontas frankly.

"Whatever, Pocahontas. You're father's in charge of a lot of people. You're a princess. Deal with it," said Mulan with a wink. Pocahontas shot her a sly grin that only Esmeralda caught.

"Four princesses!" said Jane. "Are you…?" she whispered, pointing at Esmeralda.

"Dear God, no."

"Are you…?" she asked, pointing at Meg.

"Thank the Gods I'm not," she smirked. "Besides, where I'm from, we just invented this new thing called 'Democracy', and people get a little testy when there's talk of royalty."

"…Oh," said Jane pleasantly. "And how about you, Nala? Do lion prides have princesses?"

"Well, there's a king… and if I'm married to him, I guess that would make me the Queen? Huh," she said thoughtfully. Then she noticed Esmeralda and Jane, who were both leaning forward, mouths hanging open. "No, really, I'm not that kind of queen. I hunt my own food, for example." She paused, thinking. "And everyone else's. There are no perks at _all_ to being a Lioness Queen."

"But that sounds like the best kind of queen!" said Esmeralda enthusiastically. "A queen that feeds her people… we could really use one of those in France, I'll tell you that."

"Well, one day Belle will be Queen of France. Won't you, Belle?" said a grinning Mulan, apparently the resident shit-disturber.

Belle opened her mouth to reply, and then paused. "Will I?" she whispered. "It was never clear…"

A bunch of waiters entered and placed very delicious salads in front of the ladies (except for Nala, who got something considerably bigger, rawer, and bloodier). Jane and Esmeralda grinned in surprise.

"Oh, how I've missed food on plates," said Jane wistfully after a few mouthfuls.

"How I've missed food," said Esmeralda, mostly to herself, but Jasmine caught it.

"Are you _homeless_?" she asked, startled.

"What?" All eyes were on Esmeralda, who reddened. "I wouldn't call myself 'homeless', exactly… 'transient', maybe?"

"Oh, look at us… we're all sitting here talking about our palaces when… Oh, Esmeralda," said Jasmine, grabbing her hand. Esmeralda tensed. "My husband Aladdin was homeless once. I _totally understand your situation._"

Esmeralda smiled, trying to be gracious. "Well, thanks. But it's really not as bad as all that…"

"She's so strong," whispered Belle.

"No, honestly!"

"Listen. You probably already know this, but it helps to hear it from someone else," said Jasmine sweetly. "Just because you might have to do bad things to survive, doesn't make you a bad person. If you have to steal…"

"I don't steal," said Esmeralda firmly.

"…Oh," said Jasmine.

"So… how _do _you support yourself?" asked Meg. "If you don't mind me asking."

"Well, _lately_, I've been a… fugitive," she replied, shrinking away from all the gasps of shock and pity. "But I used to… well, you know. _Dance_."

"Oh, I just love the ballet!" chirped Belle. "You must perform for us sometime!"

"…Sure," said Esmeralda uncertainly.

"Ok, Belle, enough stalling," said Mulan brightly. "What kind of scheme are you cooking up?"

"Thank you," Esmeralda whispered. Then, to Meg: "What the hell is _ballet_?"

"Beats me," said Meg. "But I'm guessing she's never seen what you have to offer. Sometimes it's fun to shock people."

Esmeralda grinned. "Maybe."

"I think we should throw a surprise party!" said Ariel suddenly. Belle smiled mischeviously.

"Good idea, Ariel dear. But I have a very different plan." And she held up her hand; and in her hand, fanned out like cards, were a bunch of plastic Evafta Hotel room keys.

* * *

From here on in, the format of the story is going to change... for the better, I think. More plot. More jokes.

More sex.

That's all I'll say about it.

-Curly


	10. Shiny Clothes and Short Answers

There was one mirror in the dressing room. This was a serious problem.

Well, there were a few people that could sort themselves out. Phoebus knew how to rough it; he'd gone for months at the front lines in Judea without so much as a washbasin, and still had managed to put forth a good face as captain. According to Kocoum, "mirrors are for cowards and special events" – he was off in a corner, plucking stray hairs out of his scalp with a clamshell and not so much as a wince, and his black curtain of hair was really achingly perfect with no effort (that they knew of). Simba – well, Simba didn't wear clothes, and was patting down his mane with carefree ease. (Adam had offered to brush it out for him, going on about how he knew how hard it could be without thumbs, but Simba had managed to turn him down politely. "No thanks, I got this.") And Quasi sort of detested mirrors and wished they would all burn in the depths of hell.

The other eight were ready to kill each other for an extra square inch of space.

John Smith had the worst of it. Formal dress, for him, demanded a ruff, and he despised ruffs. He was already sweating and itching and it had been seventeen seconds since he put it on. For the thousandth time, he tried to arrange his shoulder-length hair over it so that it wouldn't fall down the back and make everything sweatier and itchier. The ridiculous poncy lace took up most of the lower quadrant of the mirror, which was fine by him: men's fashion also gave him lady hips, and he really didn't care to see that. Aladdin was leaning in from the left side, apparently for no other reason than to preen; the smirk on his face pissed him off, like, "I'm comfortable and I think I look _great_." He was a nice kid, but right now, John hated him. Plus he was crushing the left side of his ruff.

Above his head, his roommate Hercules was having another panic attack. He wasn't used to losing the leather tunic. He hated cotton. Continually, he stretched the tunic against his chest, worried that his pecs would somehow go missing if he couldn't see them. A curl fell adorably into his eyes. He glared and pushed it back. That only made him look more adorable, so he begrudgingly shook it back down. Greek men's wear was fine in Greece, but here, he felt like he was wearing a lady's bathing suit cover.

Adam was just standing there, smoothing his hands against the sides of his head. Which would be fine, if Gaston weren't doing the exact same thing. People eyed them irately until Gaston finally spat, "Eh kid, take a hint and take a hike. Nobody wants you here."

Adam went red instantly. "Hey, now, I don't think… I mean, I… well…"

"Gaston, sit the fuck down," shouted Phoebus. "Everyone else gets a spot on the mirror. Except. For you."

Gaston geared up for a fight, but lost confidence as everyone's glares burned holes in his face. Glumly, he flopped into a chair by the vanity counter. Adam, burning with embarrassment, went back to patting down his ponytail.

To add to that, Eric was about to explode from the frustration of trying to comb his hair the way Ariel did it with a fork; Shang was wrestling with the layers upon layers of his robe; and Tarzan was sniffing the mirror distrustfully and tapping his finger against the glass, mesmerized by the sound.

And then Deminda whirled into the room, looking lovely and professional and a bit haphazard as always, and mirror time was over.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, girlies and lads, welcome, one and all, to the Mr. Disney Renaissance Pageant Competition short-answer interview! I'm your host, Mickeeeeeeey Mouse! Ha-ha! Tonight, we're looking forward to getting to know our lads a bit better as they show off their glitziest duds!

"Aaaaand a round of applause to our judges, led tonight by the sugary sweet FIFI PLUME-CHIFFON!"

Fifi stood and posed lasciviously in a slinky black beaded gown. "Bon soir, Meekee," she purred. The few men in the audience whooped while the women rolled their eyes.

"Tonight our boys will be graded on their answers, which they must keep under thirty seconds, and their poise in their formal attire. Their scores tonight will comprise 10% of the total score. Haw-HAW! Are you ready?"

The audience breathed a hesitant "Yeah…"

Mickey chuckled awkwardly. "I couldn't HEAR YOU! ARE YOU READY?"

"YES," they hollered, rather on the irate side. Mickey took a few steps back.

"Gooood! All right, then, let's bring out the boys! Are you re – I mean, SIMBA!"

Up in the balcony, Nala roared. The entire audience jumped, and Simba's head jerked up toward the balcony, surprise in his eyes. The row of girls jumped and glared at her, clutching their hearts; only Jane, sitting right beside her, was unaffected. From the wings, a throaty cry of _"NUMA!"_ drifted over the stage.

"John Smith!"

Pocahontas drew in a shaky breath. "What's wrong?" hissed Mulan, who was startled when Pocahontas looked at her with tears in her eyes.

"I shouldn't have come."

"Gaston!"

"_No!_"

That came from Belle, which startled everyone anew. For the next several minutes, the always-poised Française sat slouched in her seat, muttering expletives.

"Eric!"

Ariel giggled dementedly and waved her little hand.

"Herrrrrrcules!"

Hercules tripped adorably over his sandals. Meg laughed affectionately. "That's my Wonderboy."

"Adam!"

Belle groaned and dropped her head into her hands.

"Phoebus! Aladdin!" The respective girlfriends cheered modestly.

"Kocoum!"

Pocahontas grunted – _"Ugh!"_ – and unconsciously rent her program in half, elbowing Mulan and Esmeralda both in the process. They scowled and massaged their shoulders.

"Shang! …Tarzan! Tarzan. Tarzan. Tarzan!"

Tarzan loped onto the stage in a loincloth. Again. Jane's cheer was, like her laugh, unexpectedly rugged and deep, like a redneck at a football game.

"And last, but not least, QuasiiiiiiMO-" A click, followed by blistering feedback, indicated that someone had yanked the mic cord before Mickey could utter the full, cruel name. He could be seen hollering silently into the wings for a few seconds before another click and round of feedback put the mic back into commission, just in time to pick up the last of Mickey's rant.

"…And I swear to god, kid, you'll never work in… HIIIII folks! Sorry about the technical difficulties. Say hello to your contestants, folks!"

"Wow, that's a tough deformity. Poor guy, eh?" muttered Meg to Esmeralda.

"I'm sure he's used to it," she responded coolly.

The men took a turn around the stage before seating themselves into a row of chairs. Fifi ascended the steps and perched on a stool at stage right.

"Alors, messieurs, I weel now ask you questions wheech you weel answer one at a time een under serty seconds. D'accord?"

The men nodded as she adjusted her boustier.

"Zee first question: Deescribe please your attire. What does eet mean to you? We start wiss you, Monsieur Simba."

Simba, who was still peering into the audience trying to find the lion he'd heard earlier, rose from his cushion. "Thanks, Fifi. In terms of my attire… I'm not wearing anything."

The audience roared with laughter.

"But, this is a mane…" he fluffed it with his paws. "And it means I'm a guy. And an adult. And that's… it."

The audience laughed again. Ever since the talent show, Simba had a reputation as a joker.

"Merci, Simba," Fifi chirped. "Monsieur Smith?"

John struggled to his feet and tugged at his ruff. "Right now, I'm wearing the male attire of the Jacobean court." The audience began to titter, which was understandable, considering it looked like a damn clown costume. John blushed and fussed with his ruff. "It's in fashion," he muttered lamely, and sat. Pocahontas winced.

Fifi smiled a little pityingly. "Monsieur Gaston?"

Gaston rose to his feet and fluffed his cravat. "My ensemble was tailored to my unique form – it's not often one comes across such a barrel chest and tapered waist. I chose red to broadcast my burning manhood." With that, he sat smugly. Fifi scowled.

"Merci, Gaston… Eric?"

Eric looked hot in a Captain Von Trapp sort of way. "This is the royal military attire of the Kingdom of Atlantica." He carried himself much more stiffly in the starched blazer, with his chest puffed out. "It's generally reserved for balls and state events."

"I LOVE YOU," screeched a girl in the audience. Eric winked in her direction. Ariel gasped.

"Merci, et maintenant, _Hercule_!"

"_That's you,"_ whispered Adam. Hercules, confused by the French translation of his name, rose and paced forward hesitantly.

"Hi, this is Greek menswear, formal menswear, made out of cotton… for men." Fifi stared at him. "Men wear this," he clarified, and sat.

Fifi composed herself. "_Merci, Hercule… Monsieur le maître_?" she purred at Adam, who stood and smiled warmly.

"Thank you, Fifi." He broadened himself to the audience. "I've chosen royal blue and gold, the colours of the arms of the House of Bête, for this very special occasion. All materials and tailoring were done in the Périgord region of France." He grinned proudly and sat. "Fifi?"

"_Oui, merci, monsieur. Et Monsieur le Capitain_?"

Phoebus stood with a little annoyance in his face. "Just Phoebus, thanks." He collected himself and grinned. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present, a man in a dress!" While the audience laughed, he smiled and stretched the sides of his yellow velvet tunic out to curtsy. After the laughter died down a bit, he straightened. "I'm kidding. Seriously, this is very stylish. Shirt, doublet, hose," he recited, pointing to each item, "And shoes, of course. But this—" He held out his colourful, even garish, pendant for all to see. "This is a prized Gypsy amulet. They leant it to me for this particular occasion. It's been a work-in-progress for dozens of years." The stones caught the light as he sat down, sending multi-coloured dots over the heads of the spectators.

"Merci. Ala—"

Aladdin had leapt to his feet and strutted forward the second Phoebus' rear grazed the seat. He posed outlandishly at the front of the stage; Jasmine rolled her eyes. "I had this whipped up for my first visit to the palace. Like it?" He twirled the cape. "Finest silk in all of Araby. And this up here? Real ostrich." He indicated the massive plume on his turban. "This? Ruby. And these," he emphasized, kicking his feet, "are the best leather you can find anywhere." He bowed ridiculously and returned to his seat.

As Fifi turned her eyes to the next contestant, her breathing increased; she was noticeably more excited and less composed. "Kocoum?" she breathed.

Kocoum stood and cast his dark gaze over the audience. He was dressed head to toe in sumptuous suede embellished with eagle feathers, a red foxfur mantle hung over his shoulders, and his satin hair shone like oil under the stage lights. He addressed the audience as though he was giving a speech to his warriors: "I wear the ceremonial dress of the Powhatan Confederacy." He ran his hand over his jacket. "Deer, for grace. Eagle—" He brushed the stripe of feather down his arm. "For swiftness. Fox for intelligence." He gestured to the insignia over his heart. "Turtle for longevity." He turned around to show the back to the audience and raised his voice so he could still be heard: "For humanity." Two painted human figures, apparently of both genders, clasped hands. He returned to his seat, far past the thirty-second mark. Fifi patted her blushing face.

"_Merci, Monsieur_. Captain Shang?"

Shang stood and dragged himself forward a few steps. He bowed. His hat fell off. The audience nearly died with laughter, no one louder than Mulan. With quiet dignity, Shang retrieved the errant item and places it back on his head.

"As you can see, I'm unused to formal occasions," he joked. "This is the formal attire of the Han. As you can see, there are several layers of robes, as well as _this_ thing," he added, jabbing a finger at his hat. "The Han people have been wearing this, or variations of this, for the past millennium."

With a bit of hesitation, Fifi called up the next contestant: Tarzan. Surprisingly, he stood and launched into his answer, full of purpose.

"_This_," he said pointing to his loincloth, "is Sabor. Sabor killed Tarzan's family. Tarzan find Sabor, kill Sabor. Sabor dies. Tarzan takes knife—" He pantomimed, raising his fist in the air – "and STAB. Tarzan cut. Cut cut cut cut cut. Skin rip off." He wrenched his hand through the air; some of the more delicate old ladies gasped. "Then, sun. Dry dry dry. Strong." He tugged at a section to demonstrate. "Then, scrape. Scrape scrape scrape. And tie." Quickly, he untied it at the side – giving those to his right a flash of his right buttock – and retied it. "_This_," he said, pointing to his necklace, "is _Numa._" Simba, familiar enough to know when he was being referred to, shrank back. "Numa chase Kala. Tarzan kill Numa. STAB. Tarzan take tooth with BANG. Tarzan take skin. Dry. Scrape. Pull. Tie skin to tooth. Put around neck." He sat down abruptly.

Fifi raised her eyebrows. "_Merci_," she whispered. "_Et maintenant_, Quasi!" (_Ka-ZEEE_!)

He walked to the front of the stage and posed with his hands on his hips, grinning toothily.

"Oh god," Esmeralda breathed. "_That_ outfit."

Quasi held out his purple cape and addressed the audience. "Whaddya think?" His tunic was maroon, striped with light pink, with a beplumed hat to match. Simply put, he looked hilarious. "I made these myself out of an old tabernacle cloth and some scraps I found in a _modiste_'s trash pile."

"Euuuuhhhh… _merci_, Quasi."

The next question: What would be your idea of a perfect date?

"A fresh antelope carcass followed by run through the grasslands and some stargazing."

"An eight-hour hike, a campfire and a dinner we killed ourselves."

"She cheers me on as I win a wrestling match. Then we go back to my house for a… foot massage."

"We lie on the beach and she sings to me over and over and over…"

"A jaunt around Athens where she shows me all the fun I'm _not_ having because I'm always in training."

"A candelit dinner and a beautiful waltz in my giant rococo ballroom. And when I say 'giant', I mean 'titanic'. It's massive. Real gold filigree and painted ceiling. Spectacular. The chandelier alone cost—"

"I guess, you know, being able to go to a restaurant without getting arrested, and paying with money we didn't get from dancing on the street, I mean, that would be fucking _great_."

"Ooh, get this, get this: A magic carpet ride that spans the whole of the discovered world. Aside from Arabia, we would hit Egypt, China, Greece, Rome, man, like, Russia, India, you name it, three hours _tops_."

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question. The only successful 'date', as you call it, would end with the conception of the child. I don't—"

Fifi's jaw dropped. "_Merci_, Monsieur Kocoum! Ah, Monsieur Shang?"

"Hm. Wellllllll, where I am right now, with my job, with _our_ jobs, I would have to say that… the only successful date would be one that _didn't_ end with the conception—"

"Tarzan!"

Tarzan began to hoot softly. Then he started to bounce. Everyone looked at each other sideways, convinced he had no idea what the question had been. Then when his hooting and bouncing became more vigorous, they realized he understood _exactly_, and the theatre nearly collapsed with the spectators' laughter. Fifi had lowered her microphone, but you could still hear her yelling offstage at a producer for advice. Finally Shang managed to calm Tarzan down, and everyone gained control.

Fifi brought the mic shakily back to her mouth. "Quasi?"

He smiled. "I'd take her somewhere exciting, like a festival or a street fair. We would wander around, get lost in the fun, and do a lot of activities together. We could show off our various talents. And then I would take her up to the top of the cathedral and show her the most beautiful view in the world. I would make her dinner and then maybe carve a figurine for her to take home. It would be a memory I could keep forever."

Up in the mezzanine, Esmeralda pressed a hand to her lips and held back a few tears. The audience was considerably warmer and fuzzier after hearing Quasi's answer.

"What would you change about ze world we leeve in today?"

"Pride structure. I'm expected to mate with every single female and I… really really don't want to." Nala bared her teeth. Jane scratched her neck sympathetically. "So. Also hyenas. Did you know their poop is white? Gross."

"Well, I'm all for exploring. But if I had one wish, I would bring back all the civilizations we destroyed. I'll live with that guilt all my life." Kocoum went "Hah."

"Women are getting altogether too mouthy these days. They all need to shut their traps and allow themselves to appreciate the perfection that is Gaston."

"Did you know there's ladies that can hypnotize you into marrying them? Seriously, that's messed up. Deal with them first. Yeesh."

"I don't know. Everything's pretty good for me, I think, I mean, if it's not, I can just get my parents and aunts and uncles to fix it for me and it's all good, you know?"

"There are some _men_ in this world who try to force women to marry them. And they would stab you in the back without a second glance. Those men are completely disgusting and I often think that I would just drop the douchebag – I mean, the douchebags, plural – if I could go back in time and… er."

Bell shivered all over.

"It's too easy for dirty old puritanical hypocrites to scrape all the power up into their bony hands these days. Then everyone who doesn't fight the system becomes complicit. If I could change one thing, I would convince everyone to fight for their personal rights. And I would seriously cut military budgets because it's getting ridiculous. Your enemy is petty criminals armed with a chicken bone and you're going after them in full armour? Please."

"Class systems are wayyyy rigid. Man, why _shouldn't_ you be allowed to love whoever you want? You know? It wouldn't _ruin_ things if two people married and one of them just happened to have a patch on his pants. Worse things have happened."

"The world would be much improved if _some_ people would just _stay home_ and keep their pasty megalomaniacal hands to themselves."

"Er, I'm actually going to have to agree with Kocoum, like if there's a wall, it's probably there for a reason, _Mongolians_."

"Tarzan?"

He stood. He took a breath. "No more Clayton. No more boats. No more_ pow_," he whistled, mimicking the sound of a gunshot. "No more Sabor." He rounded on Simba and glared. "_No more Numa!_"

"Well, everyone should think about Jesus and how he loved everyone, even the sluts and gimps and ugly people. And the monsters. Like me!" Quasi smiled sweetly while the audience gasped and giggled awkwardly.

Fifi giggled and asked them about their role models next.

"My dad. He taught me how to be brave and take responsibility. Also my foster dads, who taught me how to… run away and… eschew responsibility."

"A lovely lady who taught me to see the world as something to know, not something to collect." Pocahontas' program was turning into confetti on her lap.

"My greatest role model is… me. After all, who's up at seven o'clock every morning eating five dozen eggs? Do you know how hard it is to eat five dozen eggs? But I do it, because I have a goal, and I won't give up!"

Whispered Mulan, "I don't get it. Is his goal to cause an egg shortage?"

Eric thought for a bit before answering, and then began with a very serious tone. "Probably Max. He is loyal and fun. He's got a great sense of humour. He's selfless and very brave in a crisis. He's saved my life before." Then he grinned goofily. "I mean, best sheep dog you'll ever meet!"

Silence. Crickets chirped.

"Oh jeez, was that supposed to be a joke?" asked Meg sympathetically.

"_Will you knock it off_?" hissed Mickey to Jiminy Cricket, who was chirping into an offstage microphone.

"Couldn't resist," he giggled.

Hercules broke the silence. "My trainer, I guess, Phil. I certainly wouldn't be where I am today without him." _Awww._ "I mean, I'd still be strong, and a demigod but definitely not famous, and I wouldn't have _this_ body." He flexed dramatically and people rolled their eyes.

"My darling wife. She's my rock, my teacher, my lady. She taught me grace. I mean, I know you wouldn't believe it, but I was actually _pret-_ty wild before we met." Adam fiddled with his lapels proudly as everyone tried and failed to imagine him as a bad boy.

"Well…" Phoebus thought. "I would say Richard the Lionheart, but he's English, so I'm sort of forbidden from complimenting him by law. I'll say Quasi over there." He jerked his head down the line. "Great guy."

"Well, when I was a kid," said Aladdin, "just after I was out on my own, I saw these street performers, acrobats, and it gave me the idea to become really good at climbing buildings and stuff, which is how I did so well on the streets. Almost broke my neck a few times at the beginning, but it was worth it."

"My role model is my chief Powhatan. He rules with great wisdom and strength and keeps our people safe." Pocahontas' nervous energy was such that she'd taken to chewing on the remains of her program.

"My father too was my role model. He gave me my opportunities. He died before I could properly thank him." Shang's mouth twitched like he would cry, so he made a big show out of smiling and acting manly.

"Jane. Kala. Kerchak. Terk. Tantor. Mr. Porter." There was a half-second pause, during which time everyone got good and ready for an eye-roll, when Tarzan spoke up again. "Everyone Tarzan knows, since I was born. Tarzan is not a finished human. Tarzan grows every day. Everyone Tarzan meets teaches me something. Tarzan tries to learn from everyone. Tarzan's role model are my friends, my family, my foe, and you," he said, gesturing to the audience. They could tell it was genuine.

Quasi seemed a bit confused by the question. "Why, Jesus Christ," he said, as though they were all silly to not have guessed.

"What eez one tsing you would like to learn?"

"I've heard of some other animals that have managed to train this toe—" Simba wiggled his inside toe on his right hand, "…into a sort of makeshift opposable thumb. I'd like to try that. It would be dead useful."

"I shoot really well, but I'm rubbish at archery. That's what I'm working on right now."

Gaston chuckled like Fifi was an idiot. "What is there left to learn?"

"Breathing underwater would be so awesome. Failing that… the violin, maybe."

"Well, I… I could never really dance." A few girls in the audience _whooped_ as Hercules got red.

Adam made a show of shifting in his seat and inclining his head so Shang could hear him. "I would like to learn to speak _Mandarin_," he said too loudly. "I understand it is an important language in the Orient, and should I visit there, I should like to be able to make friends."

"Well…" Phoebus bit his lip. "Right now I'm trying to learn to juggle and it's… not going well."

"I want to learn how to cook," said Aladdin brightly. "First I didn't have access to a stove, and now I have servants, so I never really got the chance to learn."

"Hm." Kocoum thought. "Well, when I was a child, I was not tapped to become a medicine man, but…" he reddened, as though there was shame in admitting to wanting something. "I have always had an interest in the healing arts. I would like to learn… for practical purposes," he finished strongly, though not entirely convincingly.

Shang spoke practically right at Adam. "I would like to learn _Latin_, because _apparently_ you can't really _get by_ in Western society without knowing it, despite the fact that my Disney English is getting me by just fine." Adam coughed. Shang turned toward the audience. "Also architecture. I'd like to be able to design my own family home."

"Tarzan would like to learn Latin too. Tarzan enjoyed Descartes' _Meditations on First Philosophy_ but Tarzan thinks it would be interesting to read Mr. Porter's copy in the original Latin. And maybe ancient Greek, so Tarzan can read Plato's _Republic_."

When everyone got over _that_, Quasi looked down bashfully at the floor and said, "I want to learn about women. I didn't meet a woman until I was 20 years old, and I probably won't ever find someone to love, but… if I do, I want to know how to make her happy."

"The first woman he met; was that you?" Meg whispered to Esmeralda.

"How could you guess?" said Esmeralda thickly.

"No idea," said Meg, and handed her a handkerchief, for tears were streaming down her face.

"If zere ees one tsing you could say to your antagoneest, what would it be?" The men perked up, stimulated. Simba bared his teeth like he was actually facing Scar.

"You are not and could never have been half the ruler my father was, you disgusting perverted ugly old _hyena_."

"There's a reason you found no success in life, you idiotic fat-arsed pasty-faced simpleton, and that reason is your overwhelming lack of social skills."

"You should have done us all a favour and killed yourself long ago, you disgusting abomination of nature."

"Um… thank you for hooking me and Ariel up. Now kindly _die_."

"Keep your nasty mitts off my cousin Persephone!"

Adam directed his down the line. "Do _you_ honestly thing she'd want _you_ when she could have literally _any other man in the world_? She picked me, asshole. Enjoy hell."

"If there is a God, He should be _ashamed_ he let you be born. Enjoy hell, like that last guy."

"Use some of that weirdo magic to give yourself a better chin. And your breath smells like a dead animal."

"I wouldn't have to say anything. All of the colonists got dysentery, which I think is punishment enough."

"My girlfriend… is going to cut. You. Up."

"Clayton is nothing – _NOTHING _– without gun, and less manly than Terk." Terk responded with a hearty cry of offense.

"Um…" Quasi played with his plume thoughtfully. "I'm sorry you had to die in such a terrible way. Nobody deserves to burn to death."

"Sank you, gentlemen, I will now deeliberate wiss my fellow judges." Fifi glided off stage and Mickey took her place, to everyone's dismay.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the Evafta property, crowded into a single hotel room, nine antagonists watched on a closed-circuit TV, revenge shining in their eyes.

* * *

"Do you think they can see us up here?" asked Jane.

"Not if they're not looking for us," said Esmeralda.

"But we are distinct. We're the only two-dimensional people in the crowd," Meg pointed out. "Well, except for those four soft-focus girls over there."

"Oh my god, it's the other princesses!" hissed Belle. Ariel went "ooh!" and waved at them while Pocahontas, Mulan and Jasmine rolled their eyes. "What are they trying to do, steal our men?"

"Probably _not_," said Mulan. "They have their own, extremely handsome men, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, but they could be after guys with personality," said Belle.

"I don't think so, considering they barely have one personality between them. Except for Tiana," said Jasmine.

"Yeah, what is she doing with them anyway?" said Mulan. "I kinda thought she was more one of us."

"Well yeah, you'd think that, but if you really think about it she's got more in common with them, on a basic level," said Jasmine. "And anyway, we're all here, together, and Naveen's not in the competition, so she'd have no reason to be hanging out with us."

"Wait, why _isn't_ Naveen in the competition?" said Ariel.

"_The Princess and the Frog_ can't be considered part of the Renaissance. And also, it wasn't out yet when the author started writing this story," said Mulan.

"Maybe they all just got bored of their castles. Maybe they just legitimately wanted to watch the spectacle and be with us," said Pocahontas.

"Ok…" Nala stood up and looked at everyone. "I need to ask. How is it that you all knew each other? Did your movies cross over or something?"

"Oh, no," said Belle. Then, more slowly, "Oh… no."

"What?"

"Well… this is a little awkward..." she started twisting a handkerchief in her hands. "It's called the 'Disney Princesses' and… it's kind of an invitation-only club."

Esmeralda's eyes narrowed. "Wait, are you_ serious_? There's a _club_ that we're _excluded_ from?"

"Don't make too much noise, they might ask you to join," whispered Mulan.

"I don't get it," said Meg. "What is this club?"

"It's mainly a merchandising thing," said Pocahontas. "It's a wide market. We have to… go to a lot of tea parties."

"The tea parties are my favourite!" said Ariel. Mulan patted her on the head.

"Basically, the original six are Snow White, Aurora and Cinderella, the white girls down there, and Ariel, Belle and Jasmine," said Pocahontas. "Tiana makes seven. They're all titled princesses. Mulan and I aren't, but we get summoned from time to time."

"Usually you need to be the title character," said Jasmine. "I'm not, but they needed a minority. I think it's a conspiracy with Crayola, to find some use for the brown crayons," she maybe-joked

"That would do it," said Esmeralda, eyebrows raised.

"So…" said Jane, very determined to get it. "We four, that is, myself, Esmee, Nally, and Meggie, are not included because… we're not the titular characters and… we're not formal royalty?" Belle nodded reluctantly. "All right," she said, somewhat satisfied. Then she frowned. "But wait… Nala, she's the Lioness Queen."

"I don't look that good in a pink dress," Nala deadpanned. Belle laughed loudly and awkwardly.

"Well, this has been eye-opening," whispered Esmeralda as Fifi took the stage again and Mickey retreated into the wings.

"Gentlemen, you will be graded out of _dix_ tonight based on appearance, poise and answer quality. Your scores are:

"Simba: _huit_.

"Jean Smith: _trois_.

"Gaston: _deux_.

"Eric: _quatre_.

"Hèrcule: _trois_.

"Adam: _sept_.

"Phoebus: _dix_.

"Aladdin: _huit._

"Kocoum: _cinq_.

"Shang: _six_.

"Tarzan: _dix_.

"Quasi: _neuf_.

"Tsank you very much, gentlemen!"

"And thank _you_, Fifi! Ha-HA! Join us tomorrow for our day of manliness, manpower and man-smell! That's right, it's our much-anticipated COMBAT COMPETITION, held in the amphitheatre of the beautiful Evafta Hotel and Convention Center, where dreams _might_ come true!"

Belle clapped her hands briskly. "Come on, ladies," she said, a lustful glint in her eye. "Operation 'Three Wishes' has commenced!"

* * *

That is one long-ass muthafuggin' update. So, you know, hope y'all enjoyed it.

Man, it is SO MUCH harder to write the ladies than the men! Why is that? I've realized a few things. One: Esmeralda is very mysterious. My favourite, yes, but the Disney adaptation reveals nothing about her. Which actually works, narrative-wise, but it makes her tres difficile to write.

Second: Pocahontas has no personality. I'm like, "What would Pocahontas say?" and the answer is always, "She would probably purse her lips and cast some meaningful gaze."

Third: I was never a huge fan of Jane - she always seemed kind of eh - but in writing her, I've realized that I love her the most! Maybe I overdid it with the scatterbrained thing, but everyone else is so damn poised, you know?

So yeah... review, foo'.

-Curly


	11. The Love Tonight, part I

The men headed back to their rooms utterly exhausted. As they navigated the narrow backstage hallways, Simba hung back and leaned over to John Smith, who had torn off his ruff and shoved it in the garbage can. "Did you get a good look at the audience?"

Smith turned to him with his eyebrows raised. "You know, I was about to ask… the lights were really bright, but I'm sure I could make out—"

"A lion?"

Smith paused. "Erm, no. I was going to say I could have sworn there were a few two-dee people in the audience. Girls, most likely. Do you think… wait, did you say 'lion'?"

"When I walked out I heard a lion roar. I don't think they would have let in a _three_-dee lion, so…"

John held the stage door open for him and he padded out into the lobby. Then she pounced. They wrestled for a bit under the aghast eyes of the men and guests, and finally she managed to pin him. Simba grinned. "Nala! What are you doing here?"

"I missed you, big guy. Come on, it's a beautiful night." She licked his nose. "Can you feel it?" She trotted away.

Simba frowned – "Feel _what_?" – and followed, the men watching him leave. Phoebus broke the silence.

"I guess Simba's going to have a good night." Then he cringed. "I don't know if I'm _allowed_ to feel happy for him."

Said Quasi, "What do you mean?"

"Well, since he's a lion – since _she's_ a lion…" He patted his friend's back patiently. "You know what? Never mind."

At the elevator bank, the elevator opened slowly to reveal a sexy brunette in a draping purple dress. She was leaning against the back wall, staring at them in such a sultry way that they stopped in their tracks, and the door started to close. With a jerk, Hercules caught the door and pushed it back. "Meg!"

She held out her hand. "C'mere, wonderboy."

"Know what?" said Phoebus loudly. "Why don't we all take the stairs?"

Hercules disappeared into the elevator with his girl and they dutifully began to troop up the stairs. They rounded a corner just in time to see a wild girl in a pelt dress flying down the railing toward them. Tarzan caught her and spun her around. "JANE!"

They greeted each other quite non-verbally and the rest of the boys continued their upward rush.

By this time, they'd become wise as to what was going on. Some looked expectant. Some looked a bit down. They expected another girl when they opened the door to their floor, but there wasn't one in sight. Well, at least until a petite Asian girl pounced Shang from behind. He flipped her forward over his shoulder and caught her before she hit the ground. She dragged him off in another direction, to her own room, they guessed. Then heard they a little tiny voice off in the distance, calling out, "Ali? Prince Ali?" Aladdin laughed, yanked his turban from his head, and ran off down the hall.

After a few more steps, a breathtakingly gorgeous raven-haired beauty was walking briskly down the hall toward them, her coin-fringed scarf jingling. She was clearly delighted; she clapped her hands and called, "My boys!"

_Boys_?

She grabbed Quasi's face and kissed his cheeks. "You were amazing."

Everyone privately sighed with relief that Quasimodo had a girlfriend.

Then she grabbed Phoebus' face and kissed him full on the lips. "You were amazing too. Two top scorers! I'm so very proud of both of you."

Their faces went from content to annoyed. It's almost like they were personally blaming Esmeralda for choosing Phoebus.

Then Esmeralda bade good-bye to Quasi, took Phoebus' hand, and dragged him off to her room. Quasi just smiled. The rest all dearly hoped he had someone, but didn't expect much. (Gaston excluded, of course. He was fixing his hair, clearly ready for whatever harpy would deign to put up with him.)

They weren't too dumb to notice that exactly half the men had been swept up, and none of the remaining men were roommates. Obviously the girls had planned ahead so there would be no "communal smush room" issues (to regretfully borrow a term from _The Jersey Shore_).

Adam bade Gaston good night in a way that was surely meant to piss him off. "Have a pleasant evening, good sir. I know I will." Gaston laughed at him as he disappeared into his room. Then he straightened his cravat, puffed out his chest, and strode into his own room, no doubt expecting to see Belle waiting for him on the bed.

She wasn't. Gaston checked the bathroom, and then the closet, and then hurled the lamp across the room in anger.

Meanwhile, Adam and Belle were greeting each other with a very warm embrace. Then she put both hands on his chest and pushed him back. "What. The. _Hell_. Is Gaston doing here?"

Adam took off his jacket and sat heavily on the bed, rubbing his temples. "I don't even know."

Kocoum certainly hadn't been expecting anyone to be waiting for him. But he allowed himself to feel disappointed. He could readily admit that he hadn't _really_ loved Pocahontas, at least not in the way that some men loved some women. And they certainly weren't friends, never had been. But, it would have been nice to have someone…

Quasi looked forward to having the room to himself for a while. He pulled out a book, stepped out onto the balcony, and began to read. Esmeralda didn't have a bad bone in her body, but her actions in the hallway had started a chain reaction that would rattle Quasi to his core, and poor dear Quasi was utterly oblivious.

The shower was going when Eric opened the door to his room. Someone was singing in it; her pure voice echoed tantalizingly off the tiles. Eric grinned and began to disrobe.

John Smith too had been expecting nobody when he opened the door. Hoping, but not expecting. That's why he gasped and fell on his ass when there _was_ someone, a Cousin Itt-looking mass of black hair. He scrambled to his feet and the hair turned. There was a woman attached to it. A beautiful woman. It was her. He couldn't really move, or talk, so she did the moving and talking.

"I know I shouldn't have come," she said, tears in her voice.

"Wh-why not?"

"Oh… you know," she said evasively.

He didn't "know", and he didn't care. He seized a lock of her hair and held it to his face. He closed his eyes. He felt tears coming. She touched his forearm. The contact was electric. She touched the side of his neck, and then his cheek. She moved to pull away. He grabbed her hand and pulled her back. He cradled her face. Magic overcame them. Their foreheads touched. Their lips trembled.

* * *

You see what I mean, about "more sex"?

-Curly


	12. The Love tonight, part II

Belle was pissed. "You mean you've been _taking_ his crap? Adam! The guy tried to _kill_ you! He basically succeeded! And you're just…"

"I don't have much of a choice, _Belle_. I'm a gentleman. I'll stand up for myself, but it's not like I'm just going to attack and—"

"And why won't you? Where's your temper, for heaven's sake!"

"What a question."

"I mean, I'd rather you get an assault charge or, like, even manslaughter than have him going all smug on you." Adam laughed ruefully. "What's funny? Nothing's funny."

"Yeah it is." He flopped backwards on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "I wouldn't get an assault charge. Or a manslaughter charge. More likely you'd be filing one for me… I couldn't beat him in a fight."

Belle gaped. "That's insane. You've already beaten him. Besides, you're in the right, aren't you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not like him. I'm an aristocrat. He's a brute. He's going straight to hell but while we're on earth he'd kick my ass."

"I find that hard to believe."

"_Why_?" He spread his arms wide. "Look at me. I'm not half-bison anymore, madam."

"I… I never said you were."

"I _don't _eat five-dozen eggs every morning and I _can't_ lift three girls on a bench. D'you… d'you get what I'm saying? I'm a pretty, tall, Aryan fop. Which is great for me, and great for you, but rubbish in this situation."

"Huh. So he just gets to dance around and celebrate the fact that you're, I don't know, _lacking in confidence_ next to him! I mean, I don't want to sound like a bitch, but how does that make _me_ look!"

"Doesn't make you look like anything. He fell before I transformed. He doesn't know who I am."

Belle stared at him for a long, long time. She flopped onto the bed next to him, on her stomach. And then the full shit of the situation hit her and she began to moan, beating his chest with her fist to punctuate every word. "Oh, _come. The fuck. ON!_"

* * *

Somewhere in the past few minutes, John Smith and Pocahontas had progressed from where every tiny touch was almost _too_ intense, to the point where they literally could not touch enough of each other. Their hands were roving all over each other, grabbing, stumbling toward the bed, falling over on it. They were probably both crying. It was all very wet. Pocahontas' fumbling hand went at his leather vest. He helped her get it off. He kicked his boots off. She shrugged the dress off her shoulder. One of her breasts escaped. He nearly screamed at the sight of it. Such a thing of beauty, that smooth copper skin and dark feral nipple, and it floored him that he had never seen it before. "My eyes are up here," she whispered sexily, and guided his hand to her breast. With his other hand he ripped his shirt open.

Pocahontas gasped and retreated. "_What happened!_"

"What? What are you talking about?"

Gently she ran her hands over his bandages. "You got shot again!"

"Again? Whaddyou mean, _again_? I'm still recovering from that last bullet."

"I had no idea. It's been _years_."

"Years in three-dee time, but in _us_ time…"

"Isn't three years enough to recover?"

"Three… Pocahontas, what are you talking about?" he repeated. "It hasn't been three years. It hasn't been one. It hasn't been a bloody _week_. I think you're confused."

"I'm confused? No. I…" She sat back, horror on her face.

"What's wrong?"

She took a few breaths. "Nothing. Nothing. Does it hurt you?"

"Got used to it after a few months in three-dee time. Also this stuff you gave me," he added, pulling out the pouch of willow-bark extract. "I positively mainline this stuff. And it never runs out because it didn't in the movie."

She swallowed heavily and nodded, making a little squeak of assent in her throat. "Are you good to…"

"Oh, lord, yes."

Pocahontas swan-dived forward and locked her lips onto his again. He frowned and pushed her back, even as she fought him. "Pocahontas – look at me…" She did, begrudgingly. "What aren't you saying?"

She started to cry again. "I thought you were dead…"

He smiled. "I'm not." He hugged her tight to his chest. She buried her head into his shoulder. "It's all right. It's all right. We're together."

"I want you so bad."

"What?"

And they had sex. It was really, really good.

* * *

Gaston was furious. He seized his musket and strode out into the hall like Jack from _The Shining_. Or Gaston from _Beauty and the Beast_. "BELLE! Come on out here, BELLE! I'm finished with your games! You have humiliated me for the _last time_!"

Belle and Adam sat up abruptly. Gaston's every word was audible. Adam cast around for a potential exit.

"What are you doing?" Belle hissed. "Let's go out there! Let's go out there and…"

"No."

"Really? Really?" Belle stomped her foot. "Then _I'm_ going out there."

Adam tackled her. "No."

They wrestled for a bit, until Gaston was inaudible, and Adam let her up. She immediately slapped him.

"Ow."

"Oh, man up. What the hell was _that_?"

"You know he would have done you in if you'd gone out there and said what you were intending to say."

"I can take care of myself!"

"He had a _gun_!"

Belle took a deep breath. She tilted her head back and put one hand to her forehead. "Ok." She pulled out her cell phone.

"What's that for?"

"Shut up. Tiana, hey, it's Belle. Yeah, I saw you girls in the audience. I had no idea you were coming! That's great! What are you up to now? …Club Neverland? Oh, thanks, sweetie, that sounds perfect. Give me two minutes to get ready and I'll meet you in the lobby." She dug through her luggage, pulled out a shiny gold dress, and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Where you going?"

"Out!"

"Be careful."

"_You_ be careful, you big baby."

She emerged after a few seconds, completely made over thanks to the two-dee magic. Her hair was down and curled, her eyes were smoky, and her mouth was red. Her dress hugged her thin form and ended a few inches below the curve of her buttocks. The sweetheart neckline was tight enough that her small breasts stood at full attention and the little off-shoulder sleeves were a lovely homage to her most famous gown. Matching gold stilettos made her legs look a mile long. Adam's physical response was instantaneous. "Hey, you don't have to go. Come on. Stay here with me. I missed you."

Belle laughed at him. "A coward _and_ a gentleman. I'll be back eventually."

"Be careful," he called lamely as the door swung shut.

* * *

"How is it possible we've never done _that_ before?" whispered John Smith.

They were lying in each other's arms staring at the contrast between their skin colours. John was naturally very fair. His years of adventure had darkened him up some, but he was still pale even by English standards. He reddened easily, too, which Pocahontas thought was just adorable.

_She_ was a different story. There was nothing but the most minute of changes from her face to her neck to her chest to her flat stomach, even and brown as mahogany. Their hair swirled together, too; Smith had often felt like a child, with such a yellow halo, whereas what hung from _her_ head was nothing but perfection. She thought his hair was wild and carefree, with its crude cut and tufts, so unlike the fierce lines favoured by the Algonquin men. They spent whole days on their hair, if allowed, plucking and snipping and combing. She couldn't imagine John ever having spent more than a few seconds on his hair, and that somehow turned her on.

"I… love you," he said, for the first time in so long. She raised her eyebrows and looked at the ceiling. Not the appropriate response. Smith sat up. "So now you have to tell me about that business before. What did you mean, _three years_?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. You're right. I was confused."

"Yeah right. Pocahontas, be straight. There is a reason you were scared to see me."

She pulled up the blankets protectively. "They don't have us ending up together."

"Oh, come off it. You're really going to play by their rules? You're not on duty. What's it to them?" He kissed her bare shoulder. "They would have us ending up together if they were to make a sequel."

Pause. "Y-yeah."

"Uh-huh. Spit it out. What aren't you telling me?"

Pocahontas took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes tight, and whispered: "You can take those bandages off."

"Why?"

"You don't need them anymore. You're fine. You've been fine for a long time." She began to undo them with such purpose that he didn't stop her, and when they fell away to reveal a completely healed wound, he gasped.

"_What the fuck is that_?"

"Yes! They never told you… you were fine? Assholes. Come on. Let's shower. Then after we can hang out or something."

John still thought she was withholding, but he wasn't going to say no to a shower with her. Plus, with those bandages, he hadn't bathed properly for about fifteen years, three-dee time.

* * *

Gaston's rampage had carried him out to the grounds. He needed to kill something, badly, but there was nothing forthcoming. Not even bats, or birds. So when he came upon Nala, taking a solitary stroll while Simba was talking emergency logistics with Deminda, he saw a chance.

"Hey gorgeous, hope you enjoy life on my wall," he hissed. He didn't really care that she was an endangered species, or a mother. Actually, in fairness to him, he probably didn't even realize it _was_ a lioness, and a talking one at that, but then again that probably wouldn't have stopped him. So he cocked the gun and…

"Hey! Don't!"

It was that kid, Alex or whatever his name was. Gaston lowered his gun and rounded in the direction of that namby-pamby voice.

For his part, Adam had given the order instinctively, and panicked immediately as the moonlight glinted off the barrel of the gun – but Belle's words came back to him, and he tried to man up. The same woman that had brought him to gentleness now pushed him away from it. He thought of her and felt strong.

"Don't what, you pathetic little speck? You're going to try to stop me?"

"I am."

He paced closer to Adam. "And just who do you think you are?"

"Find your girl?"

Gaston reddened. "Don't you worry about me. My girl's just fine."

"Why lie? I heard you. We _all_ heard you."

Gaston tossed the musket aside and took a fighting stance. "I'm warning you…"

"Can't you figure it out? Not only did you lose her. You _never had her_."

And so, Gaston punched him in the face. Adam reeled and collected his thoughts. Then, he lunged.

Adam realized he'd been severely underestimating his abilities. He'd fought wolves. That sort of skill isn't forgotten. That being said, Gaston's body was ridiculous, and while Adam was by no means pathetic, it became clear that Gaston outmatched him by a slight margin.

Until Adam tripped over a tree root, and the margin skyrocketed. Gaston pinned his shoulder to the ground with his foot and laughed in his face. Adam struggled in vain. The man was a redwood tree. With a flash, Gaston had whipped him around, grabbed his hair, and lifted him up, ready to bash his head into the tree. Adam raised his hands to absorb the blow and managed to get his feet under him—

"RARRRRRRR!"

Gaston disappeared into a ball of teeth and fur, and eventually Simba managed to pin him.

"I've had _enough_ of you!"

"Get off me, pussy, or you're gonna get it."

"I find that hard to believe. RARRR."

"Simba, please!"

Simba looked back at Adam reassuringly. "It's cool, man, I got it."

"No, _I _got it."

Gaston drove his knee up into Simba's belly. Simba reacted with another _roar_. He clamped down on Gaston's shoulder – just enough to get a grip, not take his arm off – and shook him a bit until he was good and dazed.

"Let him up," Adam commanded. He was holding Gaston's musket. Simba backed off and Gaston sat up. Without another word, Adam wrenched the chamber open and emptied the bullets into his hand before tossing them into the dark forest. Then he held out the musket for him to take. Gaston managed to stand and closed his hand around the barrel. He raised his leg to bash Adam's knee, but his reflexes were still sluggish, and Adam had time to slam the gun into Gaston's head. Gaston fell to the ground, completely unconscious.

They regarded his body for a few seconds. "Is he… _dead_?" asked Simba shakily.

"Naw. You can't kill Disney characters with blunt trauma. And anyway, it's not canon, so..."

"Right. Forgot."

"Yeah. Well, thanks again," said Adam, clearly annoyed. He licked the blood off his lips angrily.

"Sorry, man. But he was about to smash your head into a tree."

"Yeah, I know, I know. I don't want to sound ungrateful. You're a good guy. I had it covered, is all. 'Kay. Um… will you be back to the room tonight?"

"Me? No. Nala and I will probably just find a place to crash outside."

"Oh. Good." Adam started to walk away with Gaston's musket, looking a bit worse-for-wear, but less awkward than Simba had ever seen him look before.

"Oh hey, Adam?" Adam turned. "Did your girl come?"

"Yeah. Yeah," he said, a triumphant grin spreading over his face. He looked down at Gaston's sleeping form. "She _did._"

Simba rejoined Nala, who was dozing pleasantly in the grass, unaware of what had just happened. She smiled at him lazily. "So who are you rooming with?"

"His name is Adam… but I'm starting to think I don't know anything about him."

* * *

John Smith and Pocahontas had got themselves comfortably sat in a tree before he broached the subject again. She went red immediately, but there were no evasive tactics. "I… made a terrible mistake."

He smiled. "How bad could it have been?"

"There's a reason you were healed and didn't know it, and why my being here is not exactly ok."

"Tell me."

She closed her eyes and tried to gather strength from the rustling of the leaves, but she couldn't hear them over the accusatory cries in her head. So she opened her eyes and took a deep, trembling breath. "They did make a sequel. It took place three years later."

He scowled. "No, they didn't make a sequel."

"They did. And I suppose they didn't tell you about it. John…" she took his hands, and then let them go – he wouldn't want to be touching her when he knew the truth. "They had me end up with… someone else."

First, he laughed. When she didn't reciprocate, he got very quiet. Then he seemed to forget he was in a tree and started to slide sideways.

"John!" she cried, and grabbed his arm.

"Mm?" he replied absent-mindedly. Then he started to pick his way down. Pocahontas followed him, her heart pounding. Suddenly he stopped and turned to face her.

"Are you serious?"

"…Yes. I'm so serious it hurts. I can't stand how serious this is." Her voice caught in her throat; she was crying. "And I'm so, so sorry." Without another word, John Smith resumed his descent. "Where are you going?"

"To see this sequel, obviously. I need to know what atrocity they committed that would have us ending up anywhere but together."

"I don't think…"

"Are you coming or not?"

She obliged, panicking, and they went off to find Deminda O'Kelly.

* * *

Seriously, FUCK THE SEQUELS!

And now, let's hear from one of our readers. EverlastingFlower96 says: Put Clopin as a contestant. PLEASE! *puppy eyes* I want Clopin in it as a contestant! ^_^

That's a different contest entirely, EF96. The one you're thinking of is called the Mr. Secretly Gay Exposition Device Pageant Competition. Contestants are: Clopin, Kikata, Cogsworth, Rafiki, Chifu, Sebastian, The Coked Up Merchant from Aladdin, That Fucking Elephant, and… actually, Hercules probably qualifies for this one too. (Hey! Hey! It was Ancient Greece! Ok. Fine. Jeez. Hermes can have his slot. Happy?)

But if you like Clopin, allow me to direct your attention to my Hunchback fic entitled "The Meatpuppeteer"!


	13. The Love Tonight, part III

Belle, Snow White, Aurora, Cinderella and Tiana were bumping it out on the dance floor to the groove of the DJ's whims. They were all very drunk. They never had trouble finding someone to buy them drinks, and since their waists were all smaller than their necks, they were all cheap drunks. There was a healthy circle around them as they moved their hips, punctuated with the _click_ of their heels, and pressed their bodies together, reveling in their beauty. The women of the club stared at them with tears in their eyes, elated at being co-present with their childhood heroines. The men thought they were gorgeous, of course, but knew they were all taken by large violent men. They also knew they'd be measured against said men by every woman in the club tonight, which sucked.

Belle had quite forgotten about her and Adam's fight. She'd also forgotten about her previous ire toward the girls she was with right now. They were all so lovely. She loved them. They were her girls. She caught Tiana's eye across the circle, smiled, and leaned forward. They kissed chastely on the lips.

When they tired eventually, they trooped back to the VIP room down the path that cleared for them. They collapsed in a heap on the couch. A server brought another bottle of champagne. They squealed and toasted. Belle shushed them all and began to speechify. "This is _so much funner _than listening to Adam's _blah_ all night! Seriously, he's like _blah blah blah_ 'I'm a baby'_ blah blah blah…_"

"Men _suck_!" crowed Cinderella.

"We're glad you came too, baby," said Tiana.

"I'm so glad we did this trip," said Snow White. "And I'm so glad they did the Disney Princesses so I have you guys. I love Princie, but I'm so _bored_! They gave him _zero_ personality. Not even a _name_."

"Yeah, they screwed you over," said Aurora assertively. "Sorry, hon. If it makes you feel better, I'm not much better off."

"Nor am I," said Cinderella. "I'll admit – I'm being candid 'cause I'm drunk – I was thinking about you two," she said, pointing to Belle and Tiana, "And I thought that it would_ suck_ to be married to a guy that didn't just worship your beauty and nothing else."

"It… doesn't," said Tiana, unsure of how to take it. (After all, she was new to the group.)

"But LATELY I've been thinking that it must be so much more interesting to have an actual _conversation_ with your husband. Even if it _does_ turn into an argument. I so long to argue with Char about _something_."

Belle nodded aggressively. "I mean, it is interesting. I think it's great that we were friends before we were lovers. We know how to argue and make up. And I can, like, walk around in sweat pants and it's not a problem."

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" squeaked Aurora. "Philip acts _offended_ when I wear sweats! Literally _wounded._"

"That blows," said Belle.

"So why are you with us instead of him?" said Cinderella.

"Because he's being infuriating!" Belle cried. "Our antagonist is, like, _walking around_, and Adam's just going to let him. For god's sake! Of all the retardation."

"Ooh, that's awkward," said Cinderella.

"Are you in danger?" squeaked Aurora. She, Snow White and Tiana saw antagonists as someone who could and would murder your ass, with magic. Belle shook her head vigorously.

"No, no. There's nothing he could do to us, obviously, since we're off-canon, but it's really embarrassing. And I wouldn't even mind so much if Gaston would be civil, and they could just ignore each other, but… it's Gaston! He's not! He's running around flaunting this and that and insulting Adam, I know that for a fact, and Adam's like 'Oh, but he'd kick my ass' and…"

"More bubbly, ladies?" Tiana expertly poured a round of champagne and they giggled, coming down from their man-bashing streak. "I guess you're going to have to kick Gaston's ass yourself," joked Tiana.

"Don't you worry about me," said Belle. "Dude's done for!" She took off her heel and pantomimed stabbing it into his chest. The girls rocked with laughter. "Seriously, I'm not worried about him at all. At. All. If he came after _me_, Adam would drop his ass. But I don't know why he won't stand up for himself!"

"He's probably worried about looking like a beast."

"I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE BEAST!"

Belle's outburst prompted another round of hysterical laughter and they toasted their champagne flutes once more. "To the beast!"

* * *

Meanwhile, John Smith and Pocahontas found themselves in a screening room with a very nervous and apologetic Deminda O'Kelly. John Smith and Pocahontas were sitting in the center of the middle row. John's hand was over hers on the armrest, but neither of them looked like they were particularly enjoying the contact. It broke Deminda's heart, because what they didn't know, and what she wouldn't tell them, was that John Smith and Pocahontas were her unequivocal favourites, and seeing what the sequel had done to them had almost made her leave Disney ten years ago. She cleared her throat and began to speak.

"What seems to have happened is that an error of bureaucracy caused the Disney Animation Studios to believe that you, Mr. Smith, had refused their request to participate in the making of this film. Clearly, Mr. Smith, you were never contacted. And… furthermore, a _second_ error of bureaucracy caused the Studio to _not_ inform you of that fact, Ms. Ro… I mean, Pocahontas.

"So, once again, I would like to apologize on behalf of the Disney Corporation for this gross error in communication and any personal anguish or inconvenience it may have caused or may cause in the future. I have been authorized to issue these season passes to all Disney parks and resorts, absolutely free." She glumly held up two Mickey-embossed cards.

"Just play the damn movie," grumbled Smith.

Deminda sighed, looking very human, gave a signal to the projector booth, and left them to themselves. What she knew, and what she was forbidden from telling them, was that the Studio had known all along that John Smith would never agree to this utter character assassination and so had kept him in the dark. And since they knew Pocahontas would never agree to do the film if she knew John hadn't, they didn't tell her that the John Smith they cobbled together for the movie wasn't the real thing. It was evil and trashy and Deminda hated it.

The film opened on the dark, ominous streets of London. Inside some sort of rickety high tower, a man with an off-screen face pored over a map.

"That is _not_ how you use a compass," Smith muttered.

The man in the movie was clearly John Smith, and as soon as he started speaking, he (in the film) established himself firmly as an idiot.

" '_Hey, a party, am I invited_,'" the audience-Smith repeated softly. "They made me a douche. I can't believe it! And why do I look so… terrible… and low-quality?"

"They spend no money on sequels," said Pocahontas. "We all look awful. And wait until you see the scenery."

"Did I really just say _thanks for dropping in_!"

" '…_And that is the death of John Smith_,'" wailed on-screen Radcliffe.

"_Death_? He dropped me in the Thames! Did they… did they not see me plunge into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean to save Thomas? Did they… honestly think… I couldn't survive the damn _Thames_?"

"I know."

Movie-Queen Anne mentioned John Rolfe, and real-Smith sat up straight. "Rolfe. I know him, I think. Who is he again?"

Pocahontas went, "I don't know."

"Good lord, you're right, the water looks like a kid drew it."

"I know."

"Hey, my compass! I forgot I let you keep that." He forgot he was cross and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled a very ill smile.

"_Much time has passed since the news of John Smith's death_," said movie-Nakoma.

"_I know that_," said movie-Pocahontas. "_It's just… hard to say goodbye_."

"Oh my god," whispered real-Smith. "You… really thought I was dead."

"I did."

"For _years_?" He kissed her again. "I'm so sorry."

The song started up, and they both flinched. Pocahontas looked over at him sidelong. "You don't like it?"

"I mean, you sing it beautifully, but… it's not their best, is it?" She nodded. "That's Rolfe. Right? I _do_ know him. He's a courtly chap, but not a _bad_ guy. They're not out to make him a villain, are they?"

"N-no."

"Well that's all right, then."

Then he watched his girl and Rolfe board a ship together. Judging by his face, he didn't think it was "all right" anymore.

"Wow, did you ever think I was dead."

* * *

Adam pulled up in front of Neverland Nightclub in a taxi. The line was stupidly long. He scanned it and didn't see Belle, so he strode right up to the door. The bouncer turned an angry eye on him.

"Sir, there's a line."

"I see that. My wife's in there. I'm coming to meet her."

"Uh-huh. We'll talk about that once you get to the front of the _line_."

"I'm not even coming to stay. I just want to dart in there for a moment. Come on, buddy—"

"Who're you calling _buddy_?"

"Sorry. Listen. We're all adults here. I promise, in and out. I'll pay the cover charge and everything."

"How about this, why don't I page your wife and she'll come to you?"

"Oh." Adam smiled. "That would be great."

"What's her name?"

"Belle."

The security guard lifted the lapel of his sports jacket and talked into it. "Belle to the entrance, please, Belle to the entrance." He turned to Adam. "To the back of the line."

"Why, thank you, I…" Then he frowned. "You don't have a radio in there."

"I don't? Whoops. Maybe you can get me one at the _back of the line_."

"Now see here…"

"Oh my god, you're the Prince Beast!"

Adam turned toward a girl at the front of the line who had squealed this at him. "What?"

"I know you! You're the Prince that was a beast! You're the Beast!"

"Not anymore…"

"And Belle's inside?"

"Yeah…"

"OOOOOH MY GOOOOOD!" She clutched her face and started jumping. "OH MY GOD BELLE'S INSIDE OH MY GOD!" The news travelled down the line quickly enough. The bouncer watched this all with horror.

"Sir, you're riling up the crowd. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Now see here—"

"What's going on out here?" A very well-dressed woman had stuck her head out the door. The bouncer straightened.

"Oh, Jorene, this gentleman here is looking to jump the line."

Jorene was very chic and authoritative looking. He nodded at her. "Adam Bête," he said calmly, extending his hand.

"Hello, Mr. Bête. I'm Jorene Gandrina. Is there something I can help you with?"

She seemed to recognize him. He squared his shoulders. "Ms. Gandrina, I'm looking for my wife. Her name is Belle Éla Bête and…"

"Yes, of course. She's with her party in the VIP room. Follow me. Jeremy?"

Jeremy the bouncer scowled and cleared the velvet rope. Adam pulled out a franc and dropped it in Jeremy's pocket. "Buy yourself a radio."

* * *

Said movie-Pocahontas, "_It's… called… powder_."

Said movie-Rolfe, "_You… look… beautiful_."

Real-Smith snorted very loudly. Pocahontas scowled. "What, you don't think I do?"

"You always do. But, first of all, they drew you like you're made out of plastic. Same as they drew everyone. And they powdered you up, which makes you look ill, and your hair in that puff-ball…"

"I know."

"Well, I have to commend her for wrestling it into that. And I have to commend your hair for cooperating. But… I've seen some dumb hairstyles on English women, that's certain, but they had ugly hair to begin with. To do that to _your_ hair? Criminal."

"That's a bit of a back-handed compliment."

"Sorry, love. I understand _why_ they made you wear all that and you do carry it well. It's just, I'd rather developed a taste for fringed leather."

"Thank you."

"And your mother's necklace is much prettier than the one he bought you."

"Obviously."

"And your legs are too sexy to hide like that."

"Stop."

* * *

The girls squealed and pointed when Adam walked into the VIP area. "Ladies night, no boys allowed!" they chanted. Adam hesitated.

"Baby's with her girls tonight," Belle sang. The girls threw their arms around her protectively.

"Of course," said Adam. "But I need to talk to you for a minute."

"I'll be home in a few hours. We'll talk then."

"Ok, but you're going to like it."

"Nawww, I like my girls better." They toasted their flutes again.

"One minute, Belle. Please."

"Is it an _emergency_?" she moaned sarcastically.

"An emergency of the heart."

There was a pause, like nobody could believe what he said, and then they absolutely dissolved into laughter. Belle clambered to her feet. "Ok, ok, just for that, you deserve it." She tripped over Snow White's feet and fell, quite literally, into his arms. "Whoops!"

"Drank too much?"

"No, baby, it's all good."

Adam didn't protest further. He guided her to the quiet patio and they leaned against the railing, gazing over the Yesdin strip. "I know why you were upset with me over Gaston."

"I should hope so. It was very upsetting."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore. I stood up to him."

Belle went "Whaaaa…?"

"He's… lying unconscious in the forest."

Belle gasped and grabbed the back of his neck. "What happened!"

"Well, I was taking a walk, thinking about what you said, and I saw him at a distance. I walked over to him but I wasn't sure what I was going to do. I saw him raise his musket, and then I saw that he was aiming for Simba's girl."

"Oh no, Nala!"

"Right. So I yelled at him to stop, and he rounded on me, and I was just about to back down when I thought of you. So I told him, in no uncertain terms, that he never got the girl and it was his own damn fault…"

Belle moaned her assent.

"And then he punched me." He showed her a bruise on his cheekbone and she freaked out a little. "So… we grappled. Now, I will admit, I didn't win all on my own." He took a few steps back so he could demonstrate. "He had me like this, right? About to smash my head into a tree. So I got ready to use his momentum against him. Before I could do that, though, Simba pounced and knocked him around a bit. I told Simba to back off, and then I grabbed his gun, and emptied it, and handed it back to him, trying to be a gentleman, but he tried to break my knee, so I whacked him with it, and he went out."

"Oh my god oh my god…"

"I'm sorry I couldn't do it on my own."

"Nononononono shhhh. Don't talk like that. You're amazing. I love you so much. Now he knows that we're together and there's nothing…"

"Oh… sorry. He… doesn't know we're together."

"What?"

"I didn't get a chance! I swear!"

"Hm."

"I'm not perfect. I'm sorry."

Belle cocked her head and regarded him intently. "No, you're not. You're better than perfect. Well. He'll know soon enough. But for right now, I'm completely… obsessed with you. Let's dance." Surprisingly agile, considering her inebriation, she grabbed his hand and dragged him back inside, down the stairs, onto the dance floor. They passed Jorene on the way, who gave them a knowing smile. No sooner had they hit a groove than the music faded out, and a Québécois female voice rang across the room.

"I dedicate diss song to my two good friends, Belle and Hadam." The club cheered. Belle's jaw dropped.

"What the hell is _Céline_ doing here!"

"Is that… is that Peabo Bryson?"

_Tale has hold has time… true has hit can be…_

_Barely heven friends, den somebody bends – hunexpectedly…_

_Just a little change, small to say de least;_

_Bode a little scared, neider one prepared,_

_Beauty hand de Beast!_

They'd updated the song so that it no longer sounded like the early-90s synth pop mess it originally was, and it was wonderful. Belle and Adam just looked at each other and giggled sheepishly. But the crowd was off its rocker, urging them to dance – "Dance! Dance! Dance!" – and so they did.

* * *

Yes, I am in fact allowed to make fun of Céline Dion's Québécois accent - one of the many perks of living in Montréal.

What can I say about this chapter... I liked getting Belle drunk. I liked trashing the sequel. Sometimes I write these things (not that I'm going to post any because it's super self-indulgent) where I have minor characters that don't show up in the sequels confront the protagonists and give them all sorts of shit for the way they act. Remember the cute little blonde girl in Hunchback? I wrote this thing where she moves back to Paris with her husband and baby after ten years away and, upon discovering that her heroes have all become shitheads, she hunts down Phoebus and Esmeralda at that godawful _Jour D'amour _thing and chews them out. Sample line: "I appreciate that simplifying everything makes it easier to deal with, but I want you to honestly look at each other and ask, 'Do I like this person?'"

What else, what else... Um... Thanks for your feedback! I'm really pleased that I have readers that stick with me even if they don't agree with me, because it IS such a fanwank, and it is subjective - although not as subjective as you might think! Swear to god, most of the plot development - not to mention the scores - are coming up pretty organically. Anyway, I think it's great that we can all get along.

And honestly, I don't hate some of the characters as much as you'd think. Well, there's not much love lost between me and Ariel/Eric, but I'm quite fond of everyone else. And I'm having ever so much fun with Gaston.

-Curly


	14. The Love Tonight, part IV

On screen, Radcliffe had just swept Pocahontas up into his own weirdly whirling dance, which was especially odd since ballroom dance had not been invented yet and the sight of a man and woman in a hold like that would have been new and a bit alarming. Smith yelled in anger. "HE HAD HIS HANDS ON YOU?"

"For a moment."

"Didn't anyone pry him off? Didn't Rolfe? Didn't…" Smith stopped his tirade and inclined his head, listening intently to the dialogue. Real-Pocahontas twisted her skirt in her hands.

"_It's a very good thing Smith is dead. Seeing how disloyal your heart is would surely kill him_." Movie-Pocahontas closed her eyes, sighed, and walked away.

Smith turned his head very slowly to the real Pocahontas. "Was that a guilty sigh?"

Pocahontas winced. "N-no?"

John Smith sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Boy, did you ever think I was dead." He turned to her, clearly trying not to be angry, but there was red in his cheeks. "It's all right," he said slowly. "Three years is… a long time."

* * *

Kocoum was amusing himself by thumbing through the nightstand Bible and snorting derisively when he was interrupted by a knock on his door. Quasi's already-warped features were made terrifying by the distortive peephole. Of course, nothing fazed Kocoum, so he opened the door and patiently waited for Quasi to say what he was doing there.

Of course, Quasi was used to more bubbly people, so he patiently waited for Kocoum to greet him. When that didn't happen, he took matters into his own big hands. "Hi Kocoum! I heard you were, um, not busy, so I wondered if you wanted to go grab a drink or something."

Kocoum frowned. Quasi felt a little guilty. The reason he'd known Kocoum was alone was because he'd been going down the row, listening at people's doors to see if anyone _was_ alone. It was a gross invasion of privacy, he knew, but if there was someone feeling lonely, he felt he should extend a hand. "Your girl couldn't make it, eh?"

With nary a single change in facial expression, Kocoum intoned, "No." Quasi smiled and shrugged. "Yours didn't either, I presume."

"Me? Oh, no, I don't have a girl. Well… no. No girl for me!" He smiled wider. Kocoum decided to believe that carefree glee. "So how 'bout it? Hotel bar?"

Kocoum stared at Quasi for a long, long time. Then he shrugged. "What the hell. Hold on a second, I need to grab my room key." He walked over to his desk and slung a leather pouch over his shoulder.

Quasi followed him in a few steps and pointed to the open Bible on his bed. "Sorry! Did I interrupt your meditations?"

Kocoum looked from the bible to Quasi. "Um… no, man. You're good."

"Oh, good! Let's go!"

* * *

John had just finished trying to weed out whether Pocahontas was still dealing with trauma from being arrested, but she assured him she was in lock-up for a very, very short time. On screen, some sort of stock hooded-weirdo-at-bar character sipped a tankard while another man spoke loudly and ignorantly about Pocahontas.

"That's me," said real-Smith. "Great. First I'm a wiseass, now I'm the stock hooded-weirdo-at-bar character. At least I'm finally going to kick someone's ass." On screen, John Rolfe paced back and forth, muttering, fretting about what to do. "Big man, that one."

"Well, he's a dignitary. He's not a swashbuckler like you."

"Defending him, are you?" Pocahontas bit her lip. "Aah, it's fine. Oh look, here comes Smith the Hooded Weirdo."

One boring action sequence later, the on-screen reunion happened. Smith sat up straight, hands digging into the armrests, hoping that here at last was where the concussed chimps who wrote the script would get it right. One glance at Pocahontas, cringing in her chair, and he lost hope. The hooded weirdo stepped forward to reveal himself as an awkwardly-drawn, Ken doll, not-handsome John Smith. Shocked, screen-Pocahontas stepped forward with a tearful "_I thought you were dead_!"

"Please let me get a good line…"

Said screen-Smith, with a wide grin and jokey arms, _"Greatly exaggerated!"_

"DAMMIT."

"I know."

"_I_ wouldn't want to be with me after a monstrosity like that! 'Enjoy the accommodations.' Christ!"

"Yeah. And I assure you, the worst is yet to come."

She wasn't wrong. A few minutes later found them in Rolfe's garden, and screen Pocahontas had a very, very good question. _"Why didn't you write to me?"_

"Good fucking question," whispered real-Smith.

"_I wanted to,"_ said screen-Smith, rubbing his neck awkwardly. _"I must have started a thousand letters."_

"NO!" yelled real-Smith, hurling popcorn at the screen. "I did NOT abandon you to years of grief because of WRITER'S BLOCK!" But Screen-Smith wasn't done ruining everything.

"_Pocahontas, all that matters is that now we're together."_

"NO!" real-Smith repeated. "That's _not_ all that matters! There's an armada we need to stop!"

But real-Smith watched helplessly as screen-Smith did everything in his power to convince Pocahontas not to interfere in the military maneuver that would kill her people. "I… can't… stand… myself!"

"I couldn't either," said Pocahontas stonily. Smith looked at her in shock, and then understanding.

"Yeahhh…"

* * *

So, Belle and her Beast collapsed into bed. Her dress was already half-off. She pulled at his shirt. He stroked her face and smiled at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Come ON! A little ferocity, if you please!"

"Whaddyou mean?"

"I want to see a little of your animal! Where did he go?"

"But Belle, I…" he sat back. "That was when I was the bea—"

"I FELL IN LOVE WITH THE BEAST," she screamed for the second time that night. It was the first time she'd said it to him. He just gasped at her. She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled. "Come on, beast," she hissed. "I dare you."

And so, they had sex. It was better than it had been in a long time.

* * *

"Excuse me, sir, could I please order a glass of wine?" said Quasi to the bartender.

"What kind?"

"Oh… just the tabernacle wine is fine."

The bartender stared at him for a while. "From the box, then."

Quasi giggled and looked over at Kocoum, who stared the bartender down and ordered a soda. The can cost eight dollars, but Disney was footing the bill.

"Aren't you getting a drink?"

"Coca-cola _is_ a drink."

"Yeah, but I mean, something with a kick to it?"

Kocoum stared Quasi down too. "Does the phrase 'alcohol brought the Turtle Island nations to their knees and they still haven't shrugged off its evil hold' mean anything to you?"

"Um…" Quasi thought. "I think it means that you don't want to put money into the alcohol industry because of how alcohol is a rampant and serious problem among the people of your homeland?"

"Bingo."

"Also because you can't hold your liquor?"

The words might have been snarky, but the tone genuinely wasn't, and Kocoum managed to not punch him.

"Well, evolutionarily speaking, yes," interjected the bartender. "Europeans have been drinking alcohol for thousands of years. Most North Americans – forgive me, Turtle Islanders – haven't. Europeans' bodies have evolved to metabolize it more effectively. Evolution, man. It's crazy."

"What's 'evolution'?" said Quasi.

"Um… never mind," said the bartender, rolling his eyes.

"Ok. Hey, I'm sorry for ordering wine. I didn't know."

"It's all right." Quasi looked very concerned, so Kocoum changed the subject. He tried with all his heart and soul to sound lighthearted when he said, "I watched your talent act. I was very impressed by both your musical and athletic abilities."

Quasi smiled. "Gee, thanks. I really liked your act too. So, tell me more about Turtle Island. What are your people like?"

What a question, thought Kocoum. Some were sympathetic, some were petty, some were self-involved, some were good for a laugh, some were good for _only_ a laugh, some were good cooks, some were shit-stirrers, some had bad breath and some were better than others at singing. He wasn't sure which of those people Quasi wanted to hear about, so he told him about the one subject on which he felt very confident: war.

Quasi listened politely, wondering why everyone around him was a freaking soldier.

* * *

"What the… _Are Meeko and Flit pushing you two together?_ I'm sorry, _that_ is the worst of it. I gave that little shit my compass! I could understand _you_ thinking I was a moron, because look at how they made me treat you, but what did I ever do to them! Are they here? They need a good dressing-down from me. Oh god… I just butted into an _intimate moment between you and Rolfe! Intimacy! Of all the slaps in the face!_"

There was no comment Smith could add to screen-Smith's final monologue. It was just… too horrible.

"_The king has given me a ship! This is my dream! – Ours. Every day a new adventure! New lands to discover! I'll chart a new course. Uh, and you'll be by my side, naturally. A ship of our own! I'll put a crew together immediately! We'll set sail right away!_"

"That's sounds awful," muttered screen-Smith. "I'm done with colonization. Didn't I say that during interviews like four hours ago?" On screen, screen-Pocahontas and screen-Smith were bidding each other goodbye. It was very amiable. If anything, this pissed of real-Smith the worst. "Ok, that is _not me_. How could you believe that? Look – I'm more excited about some stinking crew than you? I just let you _walk away_? I'm siding with England? No. No. No. No, the Great Spirit will _not_ always be with me. I don't deserve him. Or her. God, what lengths they went to make you break up with me!

"Oh how lovely, Rolfey-boy's done right by you, has he? Turned the king down to go live in snowy Virginia, such an enlightened guy compared to me, eh? Oh god… no."

They kissed, and her hair blew all around them, and the ship sailed off, and there was nothing else for real-Smith to do, so he let himself cry, for the first time in a long time.

* * *

I was originally going to lump this chapter together with the previous chapter, but it was stupid long so I split it... also it buys me a bit more time because I'm closing in on the end of what is already written and the thing that comes next is going to be REALLY HARD TO WRITE but dammit I'm going to do it and it'll be great but good god it's going to be hard but I'll be a much better writer when it's over.

(You really wanted to know all that, didn't you?)

~Curly


	15. The Love Tonight, part V

The credits rolled, and the projector shut off, and Pocahontas and John Smith were sitting in silence and darkness. "Why… would they _do_ that to us?"

"Well… historically, Pocahontas and John Rolfe _did_ end up together."

"Historically? Pocahontas was a ten-year-old girl and Smith was some short fat dude, _historically_. When has THAT ever mattered? And why did you fall for it? You had to know that wasn't me!"

"I didn't know! That's the point! I was as devastated as you are now to find that you were some… wise-cracking jerk who would trade me for a ship! How was I to know they went behind your back?" She choked back a sob. "It had been so long since we saw each other last, I thought I must have remembered you wrong."

"You _didn't_."

"I know that now."

Smith stood and began to pace angrily in front of the screen. "So you're cheating on your husband, being here with me. That was adultery a few hours back."

"It's not canon—"

"No _wonder_ you were so nervous. Why did you come, anyway?"

"I missed you," she said tearfully.

"I missed you too, and I could live with _that_, but … Oh god, I feel ill." He grabbed his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know if I can live with _this_. Do you understand me? You're married to some… numbnuts… who I know is a nice guy, but I feel like I would have to rip his throat out if I ever met him!"

"I won't let you do that!"

"Oh, it was a _figure of speech_."

"Why are you more angry at him than me?"

"Because I'm not so in love with _him_ it hurts!" He turned to her and knelt on the theatre seat right in front of her so their faces were inches apart. "You know, in that last shot of the movie, the decent one, all I'm feeling is such love for you that it's keeping me alive. And that hasn't changed for fifteen wretched years. And right now I'm realizing that it will never change, it will never let up, and I'll never love my life half so well as I loved it when I was with you, and just knowing that fact will make me hate what could have been a perfectly good life if I had never had and lost you. 'Better to have lost love' or 'Better to have loved than not' or whatever that saying is, it's bollocks! It's bullshit!"

She rested her hand on his cheek. He laid his hand on top of hers and kissed her wrist.

"Do you want to forget me?"

"Argh, no!" He returned her hand to her lap. "I need to… be alone… start trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to do this…" He walked out of the screening room like a very old man. In the projector booth, Deminda tried not to cry all over the film.

* * *

"…Of course there are times when one must atone for the killing by taking the place of the deceased within the community," said Kocoum, still on the subject of war.

"That… actually, that doesn't sound like a half-bad idea."

"One takes care of their spouse, fathers more children with her…"

"Aaaand you lost me."

"Pint of Guinness, I beg you." Smith collapsed on the barstool next to Kocoum, looking a bit insane. He watched the bartender work, growing more desperate by the second; when the pint was finally placed in front of him he glugged it in about ten seconds flat. "'Nother one of that, please."

Kocoum arched a dark eyebrow at him. It took Smith a few seconds to notice who was sitting next to him. When he did, his reaction was perhaps a bit over-the-top. "Gah! You! Argh!"

"Something wrong, Smith?"

Another Guinness, which Smith drank more slowly this time; he paused about half-way in for a breath. "Yeah, no, yeah, all good. I mean, in canon, it's all just grand. Excellent. Oh…" And then the glass was empty, and he waved it at the bartender.

"I would have expected you to be with Po… Pocahontas," said Kocoum.

"Yyyyyyyep. We all expected something."

"Heyyyyy, man, you might want to take this one easy," said Quasi gently. "Maybe in three?"

"Anything for you, Quasi."

"What's bothering you, anyway?"

Smith turned to Kocoum very seriously. "Can I just straighten one thing out? …Were you in _love_ with Pocahontas?"

"No," said Kocoum honestly. "I attacked you because you were violating her."

"Oh good," said Smith. "…Although I wasn't, you know."

"Now I know that."

Quasi whistled in disbelief.

"Because, I mean, if you _had_ been in love with her, well, I guess that would sort of make us brothers."

"Ha," said Kocoum. "How do you mean?"

"Oh, you love a girl, she goes off with another guy…" And the Guinness was gone.

"Well _that's_ interesting," said Kocoum with genuine glee creeping into his voice. "Go on."

Very quietly, he muttered, "They gave us a sequel."

"Those _assholes_!" yelled Quasi. Smith and Kocoum stared. The outburst was… uncharacteristic, to say the least.

"Those sequels are a plague among the two-dee population." So being raised by a zealot _did_ leave its imprint after all. "They are hell-bent on ruining whatever was good about us in the name of making a cheap buck. They make the beautiful people ugly, and the ugly people grotesque. They dumb down their women and make the men douches and treat the characters that came out less well off in the previous films with utter condescension."

Said Smith, "I'm going to go ahead and guess that they sequeled you."

"Yup. They tried to give me a girl to appease the ugly men that just wanted someone to say, 'anything's possible'. Trouble was, the girl sucked. I know, I know, I should talk, but you have to pity _her_. They put absolutely zero effort into her and then saddled her with me. Neither of us were prepared to actually make it work. After the movie wrapped, we basically said 'smell ya later', and that was that. Haven't seen her since."

Without asking, the bartender slid another glass of wine toward Quasi. He took it and drank, forgetting his previous White Man's Guilt. Smith ran a hand through his hair. "Gotta be honest, mate, I'm finding it hard to feel sympathy for you. They did the _opposite_ with me."

"I know, I know. What's worse is what they did to Phoebus and Esmeralda. You saw them, right? They're the most beautiful things on two legs? What you might not know is that they're also the best people ever. I'm serious. I would worship them if I were a heathen. But… then Disney ruined them. Made Esmeralda wear shoes. Gave them a blond kid. And Phoebus? He finished the first movie, the great movie, eschewing his post as Captain of the Guard because he knew that the system was corrupt and evil. And where do they have him in the second? Captaining the _shit_ out of the guard. And being a bigot. It's like the first movie didn't even happen. I mean, it physically hurts me."

"Also you were in love with Esmeralda," said John at the bottom of his fourth Guinness. He was starting to feel it now.

"Well… for a bit, yeah. She was… kind to me."

"And she's _stunning_. Almost as stunning as Pocahontas."

"Oh, I don't know if there's anyone more beautiful than her, but maybe Pocahontas is close."

"My boy, I think you're confused."

"Gentlemen, please," said Kocoum, caught in the middle.

"Right. But she and Phoebus are _made_ for each other," said Quasi earnestly. "You saw them. Who am I to stand in their way?"

John Smith fisted his fifth Guinness and reached around Kocoum to clap Quasi's shoulder. They were effectively in a group hug. "Don't be afraid to talk about feelings. You're among friends." Kocoum stiffened and prayed for death.

"They made me be best friends with her son," he said dully.

"That's fucked up." They all nodded in agreement.

So Smith was staggering drunk when he got back to his room. He took a very cold shower and brushed his teeth furiously. When he finally made it to bed at around three in the morning, he was both surprised and unsurprised to find someone already in it.

Pocahontas was asleep, but she woke up very calmly. "I didn't have anywhere else to sleep," she said, folding back the covers and preparing to rise. She was wearing one of Smith's shirts. She was simply too beautiful to him.

"No – no. Lie down. It's all right." He crawled in and snuggled under the sex-rumpled blankets. They curled up facing each other and fell asleep together for the first time ever.

* * *

Shorty chapter. Yeah, I'm getting everyone drunk at some point or another. (Except Kocoum.) Ha! Remember when I was trying to get away with keeping this story at K? Yeah, if I ever manage to write a story that DOESN'T involve cussing and sex it'll be a goddamn motherfucking miracle, _bordel de merde_.

-Curly


	16. The Morning After Blues

The next morning was good and difficult for everyone, naturally. Belle and Adam had to do a marathon scramble to be decent before they let Simba back in. Aladdin, who was still deathly afraid of Kocoum, nearly had a nervous breakdown as he knocked on their door. (Thankfully for him, Kocoum was up and dressed, no trace of his girl that Aladdin didn't know he didn't have.) Hercules strode right through to the shower, not realizing that there was in fact a girl in Smith's bed until he came skipping out in a towel. Shang's robes were flailing and askew and he knocked the lamp over with his sleeve as he passed it, which jolted Quasi awake, and Shang bore the full brunt of his roommate's exemplary defensive reflexes. Eric and Ariel woke up on the pool deck in their bathing suits with a very amused old janitor standing over them. Aladdin, Hercules and Shang, who had nothing to wear but their formal clothes, experienced a rousing walk of shame, while Tarzan just danced back to his room in his loincloth.

Meg was arranging her hair when Pocahontas trudged back into their shared room. "Oh, honey, you look awful."

"Do I?" She flopped onto her bed, her hair dramatically sprawling forward to hide her face.

"Rough night? How did it go with your guy?"

"My guy. Ha!" She grabbed a pillow and rolled around, moaning in anguish. Then she sat up and faced Meg very seriously. "Have you ever broken someone's heart?"

Meg's mouth popped open. She laid her brush down and turned to perch on the vanity table. "Well, nearly. There was that one time… I atoned for that, and then I died, but Hercules managed to save me. Got lucky," she shrugged.

Pocahontas frowned, confused. "Well… have you ever had your heart broken?"

Meg laughed self-consciously. "Once. It was pretty bad. The guy was terrible."

Pocahontas started to speak, then stopped herself, then launched into it with determination. Meg watched her with a bemused expression. Finally, Pocahontas finished, and paused for breath. "So? What do I do?"

Meg shook her head. "Damn, girl."

And Gaston woke up in the forest, clothes damp, head pounding, surrounded by the fiendish eyes of some of the worst people ever conceived in the mind of a writer. "Welcome, brother," said a very old and very creepy man in floor-length judicial robes. He extended a bony hand and helped Gaston to his feet. "I am Judge Claude Frollo, and we are the League of Villains."

* * *

The men were expected at breakfast at 9:00 that morning. They made it, though considerably less chipper than the day before. Oddly enough, it was Gaston who looked most awake as he leered at everyone around the table. Adam seemed considerably more confident, less ridiculous, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

Kocoum glared openly at John Smith, not that anyone noticed a difference. But there was a difference this time: after listening to Smith wax depressed about Pocahontas' husband for hours the previous night, he had seen the unmistakable swish of her hair disappear into an elevator this morning on their floor.

Breakfast was served: two round slices of peameal bacon and an omlette. The whole thing was, once again, in the shape of Mickey's head.

"It's freaking me out," said Aladdin of the shape of his breakfast. "I mean, there was this vendor once who sold cakes in the shape of Jafar's head, but that was meant as an insult, and I'm pretty sure Jafar had him killed."

Gaston laughed a low, purry laugh. Eric, who'd drawn the short straw and had to sit next to him, rolled his eyes.

"Hi boys, hi boys," said Deminda as she swirled into her seat at the table. "Take one and pass," she said, handing off a stack of Mickey stationary to John Smith at her right. "You ok?" she whispered.

"Stupendous," he replied sardonically. She winced. He obligingly took one itinerary and passed it on.

"Only one event today, boys, but it will be an absolute doozy. The Combat competition. It's our most controversial event, most anticipated event, and I just want to make sure right now that everyone's healthy and fit to compete."

Everyone nodded, and then glanced shiftily at each other. They'd chummed up in the past few days (mostly) but if it meant winning, they would gladly kick the shit out of each other.

"Well, that was the biggest statement of the obvious ever," she muttered to herself. "Ok! Immediately following breakfast we will adjourn to the theatre for the live announcement of your opponents and the weapons distribution. Following that, another dance rehearsal with Clopin from 11:00 to 1:00, a one-hour break for lunch, and then rehearsal will resume from 2:00 to 3:00.

"Following your second dance rehearsal, you are allotted four hours to prepare for your combats. We have assigned you each a practice room and dinner will be delivered to you. You are expected at the arena promptly at 7:30, but _feel free to arrive earlier_.

"Everyone clear? …Excellent. Enjoy your breakfasts, boys."

And then she just left them there with that. They poked at their Mickeys for a while in silence. Finally, Phoebus cleared his throat. They looked up, scowling, like someone was about to whip out a sword at that moment.

"I sincerely apologize… to whoever's ass I kick today."

He said it so soberly that there was a moment when a serious fight could have erupted. Phoebus wouldn't back down. He stared out from beneath his thick eyebrows, jaw set fiercely, fork halfway to his mouth.

Quasi wasn't exactly known for his ability to pick up on sarcasm, but he _was_ one of Phoebus' best friends and the least aggressive of the bunch, so he laughed first. "Yeah, right," he said, slapping Phoebus' shoulder.

"Argh!"

Phoebus rubbed his shoulder while the tension broke and everyone dissolved into laughs. No, not laughs: giggles. It's all they could do to keep from tittering. Nerves were running high.

* * *

Before breakfast, back in the forest, a very polished and terrifying group of outlaws had gone about making Gaston look presentable. The dapper William Cecil Clayton flicked him a comb and a jar of pomade. A black-maned lion named Scar took advantage of his low position to shine Gaston's boots. Ursula the Sea-Witch zoomed around on her motorized scooter, straightening his clothes this way and that with her unsettling tentacles. Gaston was startled and a little insulted by the attention.

"I assure you, you have the wrong man. I am the very hero of my story. Ask anyone. I mean no offense, of course, but compare me to the rest of you: you are old, you are skinny, and you're a woman."

"Careful, boy," said Ursula, jabbing a tentacle into his chest. "We're all feminists here." Gaston wasn't sure if that was true, judging from the dismissive sniffs from the rest of the gang, but all seemed rather afraid of Ursula. She _was_ probably the most frightening.

"Come now, enough of this charade," said Radcliffe. "We all know how it went, and how it ended. I myself would contest my label, but once you're pegged, you're pegged, and you, my boy, are pegged."

"Eh, it's not so bad," said Hades. "Well, except for the losing thing, and the lack of merchandizing, and hey, our sympathies for not getting the girl…"

"I _got_ the girl."

"Oh, sure ya did, don't let anyone tell you different, but, I mean, Tony – may I call ya Tony? – Look at you! I like the pectorals, very William Tell."

"What Hades is trying and failing to say is that, before our regrettable downfalls, we were, each and every one of us, at the top," said Jafar. "It stands to reason that, without the intervention of a few bleeding hearts, we might have quite comfortably enjoyed the top for some time."

"Yeah… you're right!" said Gaston brightly. "I _was _at the top of my game until my fall-down!"

" 'Downfall', my boy."

"May I interject?" said Scar. "I object to the term 'downfall'. It implies personal incompetence, which I assure you, I do not possess. Perhaps _you_ find the word suitable…"

Jafar hissed. "Are you implying I am _incompetent_?"

"Oh, who gets locked in their own lamp?"

"Why, you insolent dumb beast!"

Scar bared his teeth and pounced. Jafar fired lightning at him through his staff. Scar dodged and the lightning struck Shan Yu, who cried out in pain and drew his sword. "You will pay for that!"

"Enough," said Ursula calmly as she stopped them each with a poke of a tentacle. They recoiled. "Would anyone like to fill the boy in?"

"I object to being called 'boy'. And as I've told you, I am most unequivocally _not_—"

"A reading from Wikipedia." Ursula placed a laptop on the scooter's tray table, opened the lid and began to read. "'Gaston: A highly egotistical hunter who vies for Belle's hand in marriage and is determined not to let anyone else win her heart, even if it means killing her true love… Gaston's supervising animator, Andreas Deja, was pressed by Jeffrey Katzenberg to make Gaston handsome in contrast to the traditional appearance of a Disney villain, an assignment he found difficult at first.' Now, dear, that is certainly damning, wouldn't you say?"

Gaston, now looking quite ready for breakfast, shook his head and stormed away. "You're all freaks."

"What if we told you we are out to get revenge on the aforementioned bleeding hearts who brought us down?"

Gaston stopped in his tracks and turned back. "You mean… the hideous beast?"

Ursula smiled and dropped her chin. "Yes, my boy. From that dreadful monster that took your lady away from you." Her eyes were wild and yellow, and Gaston could swear that the rest of the world faded away as he stared into them.

"Well, now, off to breakfast. You will be our man on the inside, and so it is imperative that you arouse no suspicion. You will be made aware of the plan in due time."

Gaston began to laugh as he marched back towards the Evafta, imagining the Beast's head turning to jam under his boot.

* * *

"…A special performance from our very first princess, the enchanting Snow White and her Seven Dwarves!"

Dwarves these men were not – they carried the princess onstage, their biceps bulging, like she was made of air. They set her down front and center and knelt around her like she was their goddess and they were her pedestal. Snow White brought the microphone to her mouth very deliberately and took a deep breath.

"Ahhhh-ahahah-AH-ahhhhh…"

The orchestra struck up with a crazy salsa beat and the "dwarves" (about whom their hilarious floppy hats and lederhosen were the only things dwarfish, and indeed the only things they were wearing) began to dance in the sexiest of ways. Snow White shimmied her hips for a while, and then launched into "With a Smile and a Song", better known as that song nobody could remember from her movie.

Belle was with the other WAGs in the audience, orchestra level this time, rubbing her temples, unable to understand how Snow White was performing while she, Belle, was this hungover.

Over the course of the song, Snow White bounced between each of the seven dancers, spinning and shimmying to anyone's heart's content. She finished once again in the air. Somewhere in the number she'd lost the majority of her outfit and was now shaking her _nalgas_ in a dark blue bikini top and a tiny frilly yellow skirt. Her shoes were red and spiky, her black hair was curly and wild, and her red bow was off at a jaunty angle. The pseudo-Shakira ensemble was due, as Mickey explained in her outro, to the forthcoming pop-inspired Disney Princess CD "High-School Ball". "Working title," Mickey clarified, staring at the underaged girl's bazongas. "Haw-HAW."

"And now I'd like to call judge Hermes to the stage for the moment we've all been waiting for: the announcement of the opponents and the presentation of their weapons!"

The lights on the stage dimmed to an ominous red and the orchestra blasted out an atmospheric chord. Hermes appeared with a small _puff_ under the ceiling of the auditorium and flew down to the stage, where the lights turned him rather purple. He whipped out his own shiny gold microphone and grinned at the audience.

"Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I'm going to need a little help, so please welcome our dear Muses!"

A backdrop descended from the flies on which was painted five willowy women in heroic poses wearing drapey pink dresses. They were each holding very ornate wooden chests, some larger than others, and as the audience watched they began to move, eventually stepping off the backdrop all together and lining up at stage right. The orchestra struck up a Motown beat and the ladies bounced their hips in time, _ooh_-ing and _ahh-_ing.

"Aaaaand, ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies, and some gentlemen – you know who you are," said Hermes with a giant wink, "Our unbelievably handsome Disney Renaissance Men!"

The boys walked onstage in single file and took seats at stage-left while the ladies and some of the men positively wept with excitement. Loud brass blasts accompanied their entrance, and then the music diminished to a rolling drumbeat and dirty base line as Hermes pulled a golden scroll from his belt.

"The first combatants." The cheering quieted to a cloud of whispers. "Terrain and wit." One of the muses opened her chest, revealing two pairs of hand guards. "Aladdin… and Quasi!"

The two least violent men accepted their tools and then shook hands, giggling nervously. Fighting someone who wasn't immediately threatening everything they knew and loved was going to be very, very difficult.

"With shank… Kocoum… and Eric!"

Kocoum rose and accepted a granite dagger easily. Eric took his with a lot more trepidation, for it was made of splintered wood, clearly a scaled-down version of the splintered mast on which he'd impaled Ursula. This would not go well.

"Greco-Roman wrestling… Hercules… and Adam!"

"How the fuck," muttered Adam. Hercules looked supremely awkward.

"With sword… Phoebus… and Shang!"

That was sensible enough. They took their shiny, shiny swords, which were a little different to what they were both used to but still comprehensible, and shook hands.

"Hand-to-hand… Tarzan… and Simba!"

Tarzan stood on his chair to pound his chest and release a battle cry. Simba looked him up and down warily. "Could you please make sure he knows it's _not a real fight_?" he whispered to Eric, Tarzan's roommate.

"Oh, it's a real fight," replied Eric, looking glumly at the piece of kindling in his hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Tarzan, yes, thank you very much, and all the men to their seats," said Hermes evasively. Eventually, Tarzan complied.

From the beginning, the thing everyone was interested in – and indeed, the reason the auditorium was so full at this time of day – was which contestant would get a chance to beat on Gaston. With Hermes' latest announcement, everyone had realized that it would be John Smith who received the honour. Hermes announced that they would be fighting with muskets and bows-and-arrows, and they took their weapons, glaring at one another the whole time. The other contestants reached over to pat Smith encouragingly on the shoulder. Smith never took his eyes off his opponent. With all the dickishness that had been heaped upon him in the past 24 hours, he couldn't wait to beat down one of the biggest dicks in the world.

Belle was the only one who showed any disappointment. She wanted Adam to beat Gaston where everyone could see it. For his sake, Adam's, not hers. No, no. Not her sake at all. She just wanted Adam to be happy, and not even because a happy Adam equaled a sexually magnificent Adam. She, Belle, was utterly selfless.

So, with twelve men sitting there with weapons across their laps, the time was ripe for a musical number. Cinderella stepped out with an edgier version of her famous up-do and the same dress she wore to Club Neverland (a very glittery silvery-blue sheath mini) as the band began a very Amy Winehouse-y backbeat. The muses filed in behind her and began do dance. Hermes tossed her the microphone and she struck a pose. "Soooo thissss… is… love… mmm-mmm-mmm-mmm…"

Over the course of the song, Hermes ushered the men offstage. It ended with a big brass blast, Cinerella in an amazing cabaret pose as she wailed her last note. Mickey plugged the forthcoming album one more time, reminded everyone that the competition would begin at 8:00 in the amphitheatre, and bowed off stage.

Back in the greenroom, the men clutched their weapons and glanced shiftily at one another. "Well," said Phoebus, "This is going to get awkward."

* * *

I certainly do not have as much pent-up rage towards the hilarious Disney Princesses franchise as I do the sequels, but I do believe their hacky cheesy corporate Disney Princess pop songs deserve a lot more mocking than they're getting. I don't know who's buying these albums - parents are doing their little girls a grave disservice. If you have a moment, please do YouTube "If You Can Dream", a schmaltzy ballad that epitomizes everything that's wrong with corporatized pop. Listen, let me tell you, it takes a lot to get me heated about pop music, because I am a firm believer in artistic capitalism, but I mean, my god, Disney, if throwing more money at a song is what it takes to get it to sound a bit less shitty, then by all means THROW ALL THE MONEY AT IT. It's so bad, you guys. So bad. On top of that, I've never seen anything produced by Disney that so actively pushes a terrible message. This song looks us in the eye and says, "If you dream hard enough, you will marry a good-looking man, and that is what you want more than anything." And you know what - sniff - hurts the most? They got all of the original voice talent - the ones that are still alive, that is - to sing on the track. Yes. Jodi Benson, Paige O'Hara, Judy Kuhn, and Lea Salonga all gave TIME and ENERGY to this. How ironclad ARE these contracts? Do these ladies really have no bargaining power over the quality of the song? Especially Kuhn and Salonga. I mean, those ladies have Tony noms and actual Tonies, respectively. What the what?

Ugh.

-Curly


	17. The Obligatory Montage

Dance rehearsal was somewhat less uncomfortable today from a hip-swinging perspective. It was considerably _more_ uncomfortable because of the violence that would shortly erupt. It was also uncomfortable because the Mickey-shaped breakfast had been very very filling, and a Mickey-shaped vomit splatter seemed imminent.

Deminda popped in to take their lunch order and at 1:00, they sat around gnawing on their deli sandwiches. Not, however, before Deminda raced back in to collect all the bags, disappeared for a while, and returned with the sandwiches having been Mickey-cut. Simba got a big ol' steak, which, while sensible (he obviously needed more sustenance than his human counterparts), was very jealousy-stirring.

Then they had another hour of rehearsal during which they once again were leaning toward the pukey side. For having had so little rehearsal, they were looking kinda good. They weren't all dancers, but they were all fit, which worked just fine. Clopin thought so too. He preferred to watch from a low stool in the back, certainly not looking at their faces.

At the end of their last hour, Deminda showed up once again to distribute keys to their individual practice rooms, and they filed out of the studio in a big sweaty pile. Hercules was closest to the door, and thus he found himself at the front of the group with none other than the despicable Gaston. He rolled his eyes and tried to shuffle away, but there was nowhere to go; the corridor was too narrow. Anyway, he reasoned, he hadn't had a personal encounter with Gaston yet, and if he did he could take him down, of that he was certain. He didn't even have time to finish praying to his parents that Gaston would keep his mouth shut before Gaston's mouth popped open.

"Boy, am I tired. My girl is… quite a handful in the bedroom," he smirked.

Hercules didn't bother responding. They all knew exactly what Gaston filled his hand with in his bedroom. Phoebus had been almost physically ill as he'd recounted the experience of trying to block out the telltale sounds.

"Not so tired I won't be able to take that limey down," he added. "And possibly sample his cute little New World cuisine."

"Um," said Hercules.

"I mean his squaw," he clarified. Hercules facepalmed. "Quite a darky dish."

"That's about six kinds of offensive."

"Then again, she's not alone."

"No, because she's taken."

"I mean, there's plenty of darkies here, aren't there? You know their kind, guys like us, we'll have no trouble at all. The squaw, of course, then the gypslut, the chinky, the camel humper, and I think I even caught sight of a tasty little chocolate bunny…"

And all Hercules had to do was step aside as John Smith, Kocoum, Phoebus, Quasi, Shang and Aladdin raced forward and hustled the disgusting specimen into a supply closet. Adam, Eric, Simba and Tarzan joined him as he watched them go.

Eric raised his eyebrows. "So…"

"Should we help them?" asked Simba.

"Gotta say, I think they'll do just fine," said Hercules.

"Make sure they don't kill him?" suggested Tarzan unenthusiastically.

"Naw," said Eric. "I'm pretty sure they won't go that far." The others glanced at him disbelievingly. "Or," he rectified, "they couldn't. It's…"

"Off-canon," they chorused, and crowded around the closet door to listen.

It bugged Adam that the other guys had such a ripe chance to beat Gaston down. He was jealous of it, but then again, if he were offered the chance to participate, he knew he would turn it down. Whenever it happened, it would be just the two of them. And if he lost, so be it. He would take as much of Gaston with him as he could carry.

Phoebus, who had Gaston by the scruff of the neck, threw him deep into the closet. Gaston slammed into the wall at the other end. A large bottle of pink soap fell over and drenched his inky hair. He collected himself and tried to lunge, but Shang and Aladdin grabbed his arms and forced him down until his ass was firmly rooted in the industrial sink. Phoebus leaned forward and glared right into his eyes. "All right, _friend_, I tried to be cool, but you have _worn me down_. It ends _now_. You, and me."

"And me," said Quasi. "You'll pay for what you said about those ladies."

"You're dead, dude," said Aladdin.

"I was looking forward to kicking your arse in front of everyone, but I'm quite happy to do it now," said John Smith.

"Why don't you sit this one out, Smith, let the rest of us have a turn," said Shang.

Kocoum had broken a broom handle over his knee and was in the process of refining the splintered end into a dagger. Even as he held Gaston down, Shang was stretching out his bad ankle in preparation.

"Ok," said Gaston. "Fine. Come on, you cowards. Six against one. Let's see what you got." He grinned madly.

"He's right," said Kocoum. "Only one of us should fight him." He stood up with his newly-made dagger. Smith gulped; he knew daggers like that. "Release him."

"If only one of us is fighting him, it won't be you," Shang interjected. "No disrespect, of course, but it's not your girl he insulted."

Aladdin facepalmed as Kocoum snarled. "He insulted each woman I swore to protect."

"Yeah," said Shang, "but he insulted my whole damn country. If we're basing it on that it should be me."

"Mine too!" protested Aladdin. Shang appraised the boy's slight frame and youthful face.

"Don't worry, kiddo, we'll take care of him."

"Hey!"

"I have an idea," said Gaston lazily. "Why don't you all _fight_ for the chance to fight me."

"Shut up," Phoebus snapped, but he, Shang and Kocoum all looked like they were sort of fans of the idea.

"Enough," said Quasi loudly. "I think we should let the _girls_ decide what to do with him."

Everyone laughed. Quasi scowled. Phoebus clapped him on the shoulder. "It's not a bad idea, buddy, but think about it: what do you think Esmeralda would say?"

Quasi shrugged; Phoebus' hand rode up and down on his hunch. "She would probably laugh at him… and tell us to leave him alone… because he's a jerk and not worth our time?"

"Exactly," the others chorused.

"But if that's what they want—"

"They'll get it. _After_ he's picking pieces of his jaw up off the floor."

Gaston started to laugh, loudly. The pink soap ran in trickles like dusty blood over his face. Out in the hall, Adam cringed and massaged the spot on his back that had been a gaping hole the last time he'd heard that laugh. The man sounded so deranged, so eerie, that all conversation ceased. He fought for enough breath to speak. "You're all going down. Each and every one of you. You wait. You'll see. _Gaston will rise again_!"

He laughed some more and Phoebus shook his head slowly. "He's out of his mind. I'll take that patch of floor, Quasi and Shang, if you don't mind."

"Please do."

Smith stepped forward with such purpose that they let him. He leaned down very slowly and peered into Gaston's eyes. "All right. Listen well. You and I, we're going to fight. One of us will win, and it may not be me. But content yourself with knowing that thousands of people, mostly women, will be watching. And every single one of them will be screaming for your blood." Gaston spat in Smith's face. Smith wiped the loogie away, never breaking his gaze. "I hope it was worth it."

He walked out, and the rest followed. Gaston just sat there in the sink, wracked with laughter that was starting to sound very, very forced.

Smith was a man possessed. He strode down the hall like a robot, the rest jogging along behind him.

"Wait, so you _didn't_ beat the crap out of him?" said Eric as they emerged. "Why?"

"Because it wouldn't do any good. That guy has had it coming since day one. Right, Adam?"

Adam gasped. "How could you know!"

"Like this, off-canon, it would mean nothing."

"Yeah, but, news flash, we have no other choice," Aladdin protested.

"That's where you're wrong. The fight tonight is a Disney-sanctioned event. I beat him, it goes on record."

"But that's just you, and what if you don't…"

"I'm not done." Aladdin shut up. "He's not going to win the competition, that much is clear. I'm probably not going to win either. But one of us will, and that person will have the entire Disney Empire at their disposal."

"Ok, I get where you're going!" said Simba excitedly. "Whichever one of us wins could use our prize to serve him what's coming to him! A… _scripted_ beatdown!"

"Unlikely," said Quasi dully. "You know as well as I do, John, they don't tend to give two shits about what we want, plot-wise."

"True," said Smith. "But I, gentlemen, have a few favours to call in." He pulled his Disney World season pass from his pocket and smiled the smile of a man with a plan.

They each took their training rooms. Then the montage started.

**Let's get down to business**

**To defeat that scum –**

**Did they send me blank shots**

**When I asked for guns?**

**They all seem pretty cool, but it's a war;**

**The alternative's to lose.**

**I will not be defeated by you!**

**Fifteen points to our score,**

**Which is quite… a chunk.**

**We'd all like to be crowned**

**The preem'nent hunk!**

**I've got just four hours to prepare myself,**

**So don't bother me with rules.**

**I will not be defeated by youuuuu!**

**Quasi: Still don't know why we're doing this…**

**Kocoum: Eric wouldn't test me, would he?**

**Simba: Felines that piss off Tarzan tend to die…**

**Smith: Walt Disney can suck my grits.**

**Adam: Beefcake could just punch right through me!**

**Shang: This is my song, back off, now hear me cry— BE A MAN!**

**Aladdin: I got two sequels and a show already…**

**All: BE A MAN!**

**Eric: What can I do with this dumb harpoon?**

**All: BE A MAN!**

**Phoebus: At least religion is not a factor…**

**All: Gaston's going down, that brainless nasty goooooooooon!**

**Time is wasting t'ward us**

**'Til the show… at 8.**

**7:30 call time,**

**Or we'll all… be late!**

**And Deminda would have a heart attack**

**We know that would never do.**

**So I'll see you at three-quarters-to!**

**All: BE A MAN!**

**Hercules: They didn't give me a line last chorus.**

**All: BE A MAN!**

**Hercules: But Adam mentioned my hard physique…**

**All: BE A MAN!**

**Hercules: I still don't want them to think I'm dumb,**

**But I'd rather that than anyone think I'm weeeeaaaaak!**

**Walt Disney Company: BE A FAN!**

**Jeffrey Katzenberg: We must be swift as a corporation!**

**WDC: GO TO CANNES!**

**Michael Eisner: With all the force of a great tycoon!**

**WDC: PUSH THE BRAND!**

**Roy Disney: With all the strength of expensive legal!**

**Disney, Eisner, Katzenberg: Mysterious as the corner office roooooooom! KYAH!**

Deminda appraised the three former execs that had snuck backstage at the amphitheatre and chose her words very carefully. But not carefully enough. "Um, Roy, you're dead."

"So what? So's that guy," he argued, pointing to Kocoum.

"And Roy ousted _you_."

"Yeah, but he's dead," said Eisner.

"And… Eisner sacked _you_."

"Yeah," said Katzenberg, "but he got ousted."

"Point being… Ogden?"

The security guard appeared from around the corner. Katzenberg stepped forward and started talking very fast. "Come on, Deminda, we're not going to try anything, we just wanted to see what was up, don't be like this, NO!" Ogden grabbed Katzenberg's arm. "I just wanted to relive the glory daaaays!" His cries echoed all the way down the hall.

"So…" Roy Disney shifted from side to side. Deminda cracked a smile.

"Awww, who am I to kick out a Disney? Come on. I'll get you a seat. You too, Eisner." The former CEO perked up. "I just needed Katzenberg outta here. It woulda been my ass if he'd snuck anything back to DreamWorks under his shirt, you know?"

Deminda led the gentlemen to a row just in front of the tense WAGs. The ladies gasped and grinned. "Roy! Eisy!"

"Ladies," said Roy in that trademark head-injury way of his. Eisner grinned and waggled his eyebrows. Deminda rolled her eyes to high heaven.

When she returned to the greenroom, the men were in the middle of their physical warm ups (or eating a banana, in Aladdin's case, or combing their hair, in Kocoum's case). "I've got the combat order," she said as she pinned it to the board. "Sorry it's so last-minute."

"That's all right," said Adam placidly. "We've already got it figured out, anyway, assuming it's ascending order as before."

"It's not." She left without another word. John Smith scanned it, went "huhn", and followed her out.

"Deminda!"

She turned like she expected to get slapped on the wrist. Smith coughed and tried to sound a little kinder. "My… opponent… and I had the lowest scores last night. Why are we going last? Isn't that the feature spot?"

Deminda's eyes said, _I'm glad you asked_. She walked back down the hall toward him like she had the biggest news in the world to impart. She stopped inches from him, set her jaw, and peered right into his eyes.

"The feature spot is for the ass kicking your executive director is most looking forward to seeing. So, Mr. Smith, if you would oblige…"

Before he could say another word, her radio buzzed, and she was gone, prattling logistics. Smith smirked. It had been a while since he'd felt like anyone was on his side.

* * *

There are many things in this chapter of which I am very fond.

I might be taking a break from updating soon - I've only got fifteen un-uploaded pages left, and I'd like to give myself a bit of time to really work the next few sections. Definitely won't be as long as my epic two-year hiatus, though. My inspiration is quite unspent, I assure you.

And, I was lucky enough to have three wisdom teeth yanked out of my face today ("One word: Oral. ...Two words: Oral _surgery_." -Liz Lemon) so I now am well aware of what a punch to the jaw feels like. Which should greatly aid the coming chapters. You'll see.

-Curly


	18. Fight Night, part I

The wives and girlfriends were seated along a row set aside exclusively for their use. It was the only point in the amphitheatre that provided direct access into the arena, which the organizers thought could come in handy if any of the ladies were moved to lay a congratulatory smooch on their winning man. The awkward part was that half of these ladies' men would be losing to the other half, and so the four other princesses – Aurora, Cinderella, Snow White, and Tiana – were hastily called up to join them on the bench and, unbeknownst to them, act as a buffer between the two 'teams', as it were. To the left of the four-woman buffer sat Jasmine, Belle, Mulan, Ariel, and a very nervous Jane; and to the right, Nala, a morose Pocahontas, Esmeralda, and Meg. Esmeralda looked like she was about to lose it.

"Hey," said Meg soothingly. "He'll be fine. Didn't you say he was some kind of military hotshot?"

"What? That's ridi… Oh, _Phoebus_. No, please, I'm not worried about him. He's fought battles on four continents. No, it's Quasi…"

"Ha! Even less to worry about. Apparently he's some kind of an acrobat-musician, whatever that means…"

"Oh, I'm not worried about him _losing_. I'm worried about him _winning_. It would kill him. I saw him fast for a week once in penance for killing a _worm_. By _accident_."

"And now," said an invisible announcer, "Live at the beautiful Evafta Ampitheatre, the official Combat Contest of the Mr. Disney Renaissance Men Pageant Competition! Please welcome your host, Mickeeey Mouse!"

"Hiya, folks!"

The audience collectively groaned. Mickey shrank a bit.

"Aha! And now, to introduce the head judge for this event, Hermes!"

Mickey chucked the microphone straight up into the air and ran out of the arena as fast as possible. Hermes deftly swooped in and caught it, and then hovered about twenty feet off the ground.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! We're all looking fine tonight! Thank Gods for this weather. Thanks, Gods!" The stars flashed a few times in acknowledgement. "So tonight's scores are worth 15% of the total. But it's not that simple, no indeed, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight, winners will be judged against other winners, and losers against losers. This is gonna get mathy, so listen up, folks. The six winners will be assigned scores anywhere from 10 to 15. The losers will take 1 to 9. Additionally, the overall winner will be awarded one extra point in their lowest category thus far. Got it? Good.

"Once more, I would just like to stress that our AniMedics team is present and ready for action. Let's have a round of applause for these guys," he said, sweeping his hand towards the bespectacled animators. They waved sheepishly. A few pumped their fists. One "raised the roof". "The injuries these men sustain today may look fatal, but I just want to remind everyone that these are _two-dee_ men and thus the same rules do not apply to them. So don't panic!

"As I return to the judges table, I'd like to welcome our commentator for the evening, celebrated trainer of heroes and my personal friend – and by that I mean, more like colleague – and by that I mean, we're Facebook friends – May I present: Philoctetes!" He dropped the mic from where he hovered and zipped off to join the rest of the judges.

Phil jogged laboriously toward the center, but missed the mic by a hair. It clattered to the ground, shooting blistering feedback over all the speakers. Phil snatched it up and pounded it a few times to test it. The audience cried out in protest, for it still worked perfectly.

"Alright, alright. Call me Phil. So here's how it's gonna go. We got six fights and we're hoping to get 'em all done in time to grab a decent night's sleep. That's the idea, anyway. We'll see.

"So we got your standard all-terrain set-up here. I'll explain real quick just so ya know. You can see the east end of the arena – that's _this way_ for all you bozos – is higher than the west end. That's cuz the higher fighter has the advantage. Hopefully that'll speed things up. Then we got your standard rocks and bushes for cover. Some of the rocks move. Maybe they'll be weapons. Who knows. Alright, now we got this here training summit – we call it that 'cuz most heroic battles finish up on mountain tops, and it's much easier to build a fifteen-foot fake summit in the Gymnasium than to run off to some Gods-forsaken middle-a-nowhere mountain to train on. Slap some wheels on it and you can even rent it out. And finally, nice touch, a big ol' tree. Don't usually recommend grown men base their strategy on vegetation, but who's to say how this'll go.

"So yeah, give me a sec to get up in my box and then we can get started," he finished. He jogged toward a tall version of a lifeguard's chair and dragged himself up the ladder, panting as he went. "Alright, ok, I'm up here, let's get our guys out already," he wheezed.

"Our first contestants," said Hermes into his own microphone. "With shanks: Kokoum vs. Eric."

Backstage, the men had also been divided into two groups. Kocoum, Adam, Phoebus, Aladdin, Simba, and John Smith were waiting at the north end, and Eric, Hercules, Sang, Quasi, Tarzan, and Gaston at the south. They were sitting in a very narrow hallway, completely isolated from the sights or sounds of the arena. They weren't even allowed to know the winners and losers.

Deminda would announce the next match's combatants – "Kocoum and Eric, places" – at which point they would step behind a curtain into a little booth with a paper screen before them and a red light over the screen. Somehow, the booth was still soundproof. They were told to wait until the red light turned on, at which point they were instructed to bust through the screen into the arena. (The screens were painted with jacked-up images of themselves, as they would later be told.) Kocoum was cool as a cucumber. Eric clenched his fist around his crappy weapon and sighed with resignation. The light blinked. Each fighter used his weapon to cut a slit in the paper (Eric's much less efficiently than Kocoum's) and stepped into the blaring stadium lights and manic cheers of the arena.

And while Eric was still getting his bearings, Kocoum unleashed an almighty battle cry – "AIEEEEEEEE!" and charged.

"Ok, so what do we got," said Hades to himself as he checked his stats list. The League of Villains was still sardined into the same hotel room, which was by now littered with room service trays and the remains of furniture and appliances that were casualties of the frequent violence. "Prince Eric of Atlantica, eighteen years old, fresh-faced, in love, fighting with splintered wood shank. On-screen record is one win, zero ties, zero losses."

"And the nature of this win?" purred Scar.

"Ah… Eric vs. Giant Sea Witch-Queen," he muttered, avoiding Ursula's eye. "Devised weapon – impalement by splintered bow of resurrected wrecked ship. So he's resourceful, and lucky.

"Kocoum, decorated warrior of the Powhatan Confederacy, 25 years old. On-screen record is zero wins, zero draws, two losses: one abandoned skirmish ["Huzzah!" said Ratcliffe] and once due to intervention from a third party. However, we do have a record of one off-screen win, in battle against the… Masawomecks, whoever that is. Lady and gentlemen, place your bets."

"And we're off! Kocoum charges. Eric dodges left. Eric runs uphill. Kocoum follows. Eric darts around a boulder. Kocoum jumps… he clears it! Eric's really hustling now! Eric goes for the boulder roll… Nope, Kocoum evades that too! Eric's scaling the summit, Kocoum follows… Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like it's gonna be a short one – Eric hits the peak, down the other side – Kocoum raises his arm to strike – Wow! Eric uses the downhill momentum to take Kocoum down! Gutsy move! Now they're rolling! Eric's got a clamp on Kocoum's wrist! It's a battle of biceps! Eric goes for the shank – He can't get a good striking angle! Ladies and gentlemen, Eric and Kocoum are rolling down the hill in a clinch while Eric continuously strikes Kocoum across the rear end with his stick! This is really strange, ladies and gentlemen! I don't even think he knows he's doing it! Whoop, now the field's leveled off and Kocoum has the upper hand, kneeling on Eric's striking arm, pushing the shank toward his neck… Don't know how much longer Eric's going to be able to hold out… Oh! That was a particularly nasty kick by Eric! Negligence on the part of Kocoum, who left his opponent's legs completely unguarded. He's managed to get out from under and now he's sprinting, sprinting towards the tree… Kocoum in pursuit, seems to be limping a bit… nope, he's recovered! Now THAT is what we call a warrior, ladies and gentlemen! Walking it off old-school! Eric's up a tree… seems to be taking aim… you don't think… Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he's thrown his shank, and nailed Kocoum in the thigh! Ooh, that's a nasty wound, but does it faze Kocoum? I don't think so! Eric's getting desperate, he's cracked a branch off the tree and is taking aim… but too late! Kocoum grabs his ankle and drags him to the ground and… OOF, I think that was his head! Eric is out cold! Kocoum is circling, waiting to see if he's going to get up… doesn't look like he is! 3… 2… 1… KOCOUM WINS!"

Kocoum let himself collapse to the ground, squeezing his hand over his freely bleeding wound. The AniMedics streamed out onto the arena, most headed for Eric, but Ariel was faster. Her green dress and red hair blew spectacularly behind her. She threw herself to Eric's side and started to sing to him.

"Oh, poor girl," squeaked Jane.

"No, it's not like that," said Mulan. "Her voice has curative properties for him. Pulls him out of comas. It works. I have no idea how."

Sure enough, Eric was back on his feet in a few minutes, slumping off to the dressing rooms with Ariel squeezing his arm soothingly. "Wow," said Jane. Kocoum, meanwhile, was good as new, and pacing on the sidelines as his adrenaline rush ebbed.

The villains were not that enthused. Nobody had bothered to bet on Eric.

"Judges have confirmed, Kocoum wins. Thank you to both our fighters. Ladies and Gentlemen, we ask your patients as we reset the field." A few landscapers were tweaking the boulder positions while an AniMedic re-attached the tree branch.

"Standby Adam and Hercules," said Deminda's voice over the speakers. The men were burning with curiosity as to who won the match, but they tried to focus on themselves. Hercules did a few handsprings to psych himself up. Adam stood slowly, and then turned towards John Smith.

"Hey, Smith— Before I go out there…"

John looked up. "Yes?"

"Don't trust Gaston."

John stared at him blankly. "Yeah, as though I would. What are you on about?"

"No, what I mean is… You're both using weapons that are finite. He's _going _to be concealing another weapon. Don't turn your back on him. Not for anything."

"I assure you, I wouldn't."

"Yeah, of course not, it's just… I know him."

"Okay…"

"Well…"

"Adam and Hercules, places."

"I mean it," said Adam. "Not for anything. You HAVE to beat him." And then he disappeared behind the curtain.

And ran smack into the Enchantress.

"NO WHAT DID I DO NOW YOU CAN STAY AT MY CASTLE AS LONG AS YOU WAAAAAAAAAAA…" His voice trailed off into a beastly roar.

"Next!" said Hades. "Adam vs. Hercules. Adam, formerly known as 'The Beast', now more commonly AKA 'The Prince', has a record of one win, zero losses, and one draw. Won against a pack of ravenous wolves; drew against… our boy Gaston, actually. Seems like Gaston landed a fatal blow right before falling to his own death.

"And now, my nephew Hercules. Young kid. Demigod. Superstrength, though not immortal, I'm pleased to report. Record is infinite wins, zero draws, one sort-of loss against a Cyclops – though in the interest of full disclosure, he was sort of off his game that day. Anyway. Lady and gentlemen, place your bets."

"Hang on a moment," said Ursula. "We don't know what form he'll take."

"Well, he's been a human this whole time…"

"Yes, but consider. Hercules specializes in fighting mythical beasts. Why would they send him into the ring as a mortal man? Unlike us, these people have notions of fairness. Let's wait a moment."

"Why?" sniveled Adam, looking sadly at his furry hands.

"Buck up, kiddo. It's temporary for the match. You didn't think they'd let you go up against Hercules _as is_, did you?"

"Well, yeah, actually. I didn't expect to _win_." Despite himself, it was actually kind of cool to hear the Beast's sonorous voice coming from his own mouth again.

"But as the Beast, you could. Use your size. Use your brain. Use your protagonist's luck."

He shrugged.

"And, regarding the whole rose thing, I wanted to say… well done, my boy. Really well done. You surpassed my wildest expectations."

He shrugged again, moping.

"Hey. Look at me." He obliged, scowling. "I had to do it. Please know that. You were going to be in charge of a _lot_ of people. Think of how much better off everyone is, now that you're not such a dick."

The light blinked. The Enchantress disappeared. Adam raised his clawed hand and slashed through the screen.

"Ha! I told you!" crowed Ursula. "Ten bucks on him!"

On the WAG bench, the ladies either gasped or shrieked. Belle leapt to her feet and whooped.

Hercules paused for a moment, but only a moment. True, he'd expected to see Adam's impressive but ultimately mortal shape, but what he was seeing was a Beast, and Hercules had a thing about fighting Beasts. "Hell yeah," he yelled, and charged.

"Whoa, now THIS matchup I understand! Alright, alright, Beast and Hercules charge. They meet center field. Right off the bat, Beast has Hercules up in the air! Hercules parlays that into an around-the-shoulder choke! If I know Hercules, Beast is gonna have to do a bit more than shake to get him off – OOF! Beast falls back and SLAMS Herc into the ground! Herc's dazed and winded, but not letting go! Beast ain't using his claws – ooh, we got a gentleman fighter here! Beast gets up – two hundred pounds at LEAST hanging off him – throws him forward – IT WORKS! Beast's neck is too thick for Herc to hold on! Herc goes somersaulting away! Beast is rubbing his throat while he waits for Herc to come at him. Looks tired already. Herc ain't tired! Herc charges! FLYING KICK! Beast is airborn! OOF! Again, OOF! Beast lands at the peak of the summit, rollin' down the other side. Hercules is after him, meets him at the base of the summit. Beast is really dazed now. Is he out…? Is he… NOPE! Beast is up on his feet! Beast throws a punch! Hercules dodges! GUTPUNCH! Beast is winded! Beast takes another swing – I don't think he remembers he _has_ claws, ladies and gentlemen! They're in a clinch!"

"RAWWWWWWWWR!"

"Gods above, did you hear that? Herc certainly did! Beast throws him back a few feet. Herc is on his rear end – Herc scrambles to his feet – Oh geez, Beast is making open-handed swipes at him! Herc's wary of the claws! He dodges – he's in retreat – whoop, backed up against the boulder! And now he leaps over the boulder, picks it up, hurls it DIRECTLY AT THE BEAST! Beast leaps aside in the nick of time! Whew! Hercules charges…"

"RAWWWggghphhhh…"

"I don't know how this happened, but Hercules seems to have run his head RIGHT into the beast's mouth! I repeat, Beast has accidentally taken Hercules' head into his mouth! Herc is scrabbling at Beast's face, being super-cautious – who could blame him, his head's in a mouth. Beast looks terrified, but he ain't gonna give up this advantage – He's got Herc's wrists in a clinch, can't do nothing about the legs though – Herc's not going anywhere without his head – Beast is starting to gag! Beast is choking on his opponent's head! I never thought I'd see the day! How long can he sustain this? How can he think with hair in his tonsils? …And he attempts to throw Hercules without ripping his head off! Only a couple of feet, I'm certain he was going for more than that! Won't get much of a break from that! Hercules is trying to wipe saliva out of his eyes, he does NOT look happy, don't think he got much oxygen in there. Ladies and gentlemen, I think this is going to be the last charge… and… Hercules nails him, right between the eyes! The beast is out! Trying to get up… three… two… And he's up! Swinging wildly, not much thinking going on anymore from either of them, nothing's connecting, these boys are going to have to get their heads in the game if they OOF! THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT! Hercules and the Beast have knocked each other out with a simultaneous head butt! They're writhing around… are they getting up? Is this looking like a draw? Three… two… Herc's up! Beast isn't! One! HERCULES WINS!"

The words were barely out of Phil's mouth before Belle was hurtling onto the field.

"Standby Phoebus and Shang," said Deminda.

Hercules staggered over to the WAG bench with a dopey grin on his face. Meg sashayed towards him, whipped out a handkerchief, wiped the saliva away from his lips, and jumped into his arms.

Meanwhile, Belle was clutching her hubby's still-furry hand, waiting for the AniMedics to revive him. When they did, Belle snuggled right up to him in front of thousands of people and whispered, "Quick, before she changes you back. Tell me what you told me last night."

"What?" he grumbled, groggily.

"You remember. Come on. I want to hear you say it. Right now."

And then he got it. He stood and swooped her up into his arms. Belle ran her fingers through the thick hair on his neck, pressing her cheek against his, enraptured by the texture. _"I'm going to ravish you like a wild animal_."

"Oh yes," she breathed, and licked one of his tusks. Then she planted a kiss firmly on his lips. The Enchantress watched from the sidelines, delighted, and waved her wand. As the transformation progressed and the Beast's teeth receded, they were able to kiss deeper and deeper until finally Adam was Adam, and they were making out with wild abandon. The audience was beside themselves. Adam took her hand and they raced off to some undisclosed location where, presumably, they continued to make out (and then some).

On the WAG bench, Esmeralda was watching the whole thing, agape. "Wow, I would never have guessed… Belle's a little freaky, eh?"

"It's always the quiet ones," said Nala. As if to illustrate her point, the usually-docile princesses on their left were all shrieking their approval.

"YEAH, GIRL!" said Cinderella. "WOOHOO!" said Snow White. "YOU GO GIRL!" said Aurora.

Jasmine and Mulan were laughing helplessly, leaning on one another for support. Jane was much more shocked over Adam's metamorphosis than their public display of affection. Tiana, strangely enough, was more put out by the violence than the transformation – but then, she knew a thing or two about transformations.

The crowd was so manic that even Phoebus and Shang, waiting tensely behind the ostensibly soundproof screens, could hear them. Of course, they had no idea what the hell was going on. But they didn't have long to theorize, because the light blinked, and it was time to go.

"This should be a good one," said Hades. "Phoebus de Chateaupers, highly decorated ex-military Captain. Innumerable off-screen wins on four continents, one hugely decisive onscreen win, zero ties, zero losses. ["Traitorous sack of shit," grumbled Frollo.] He's also known for his impossible ability to catch a freefalling man out of thin air. Keep in mind, though, he's been off the front lines for a while.

"Can't say the same for General Li Shang, who's coming into this hot off a huge military victory against the Huns. Bravo, Shang!"

"I will_ rip you to pieces_!" roared Shan Yu, and sliced right through Hades' body with his sword. However, there wasn't an awful lot of elbow room, given that most of the League was sitting on the same king-sized bed, so Shan Yu mellowed out in a few seconds.

"Aha, my mistake," Hades giggled. "Where was I… right. Two onscreen wins, zero draws, zero losses. It should be noted that both those wins were engineered by his girlfriend. However, he demonstrated that he's anything but out of shape at the talent competition, while Phoebus… played the lute. So. Place your bets!"

Phoebus slashed his screen from top to bottom and tore through, trying to visualize a large-scale battle before him. He hoped he wasn't out of shape. Shang opted to carve out an oval and step through it, no tearing necessary. _Show-off_, thought Pheobus, and charged.

The fight was weird at first. Their styles didn't mesh that well, and they spent a lot of time wildly swinging and not connecting. Phil's commentary was confused and halting. Finally, though, they found their feet, and then they were unstoppable. Also, they looked damn cool, with Phoebus in his gold armour and Shang in his black armour.

Mulan was totally into it. "Go for his left side!" she shrieked. "That's his weak side! Yeah, baby!" Esmeralda tried not to get pissed off. She liked Mulan, and she knew Mulan was into this whole violence thing, but given that she'd witnessed Phoebus' injury that led to this "weakness", she would really have preferred Mulan not pointing it out.

And she realized that she'd never really watched Phoebus go at it properly. She'd seen him lead attacks, sort of – she had always been either unconscious or actively trying to escape at the time. And it was a little scary.

But it was also really, really sexy.

First, Phil tried to keep up with the swordplay.

"Thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry thrust parry," he said.

Then he broadened it out. "Shang advances, Phoebus retreats… Phoebus resets, comes back at Shang, Phoebus advances, Shang retreats… Shang resets, comes back at Phoebus, Shang advances, Phoebus retreats… Phoebus resets, comes back at Shang, Phoebus advances, Shang retreats…"

"USE THE TERRAIN," screeched Mulan.

Shang, in retreat, didn't give any sign that he heard, but he re-angled his retreat toward the summit. Phoebus was slashing at his legs. Shang was blocking it easily. Then, at the peak, Shang stopped, and then attacked.

"Whoa, Shang pulled a fast one on Phoebus there! Shang's got Phoebus' head and shoulders right where he wants them! Phoebus' sword arm's gonna tire out real quick holding it over his head like that, but he knows that if he retreats down the hill, he's gonna lose all ability to block! This is getting really exciting! Shang swings, Phoebus binds, this is a very intense bind – Shang won't let it go – I think Shang knows it will be bad news if PhoebusPHOEBUS SWINGS HIM OFF! Shang's reeling off balance! Phoebus slashes his calf!"

Phoebus' sword connected with Shang's greave and a _clang _was audible. Mulan shrieked and covered her mouth. Shang went down, bleeding freely from a deep severance in his left calf.

"First blood to Phoebus! Shang's down! Three… two…"

"Can we get an AniMedic out here?" yelled Phoebus angrily. He'd thrown his sword to the ground and was pacing around, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I'm holding this fight."

"Time-out granted," replied Hermes, and a pair of AniMedics began to patch up Shang's wound.

"Wow…" said Mulan. "That's… really noble of him."

"That's my man," Esmeralda whispered, and smiled.

"Pathetic," Frollo spat.

In the arena, the AniMedics drew back, and Shang stood, testing his calf gingerly. "Thanks," he muttered to them. "And thank you too," he said to Phoebus.

"Don't mention it," said Phoebus, and the two shook hands.

"Places," said Hermes. "And… FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!"

"Now _that_ is what I call balls," said Phil. "Even though I don't think Phoebus has a very good grasp of what swords are supposed to do… Anyway."

The fight continued even more furiously this time. Yes, they had been shaking hands one minute ago, but now they were out to kill each other, because they were professionals, dammit.

The audience didn't know the fight ended when it did because they were expecting something traumatic and fabulous, like the previous two. Instead, Shang disarmed Phoebus and caught his sword, and Phoebus raised his right hand, and it was over. Again, they were professionals, dammit.

"SHANG WINS!"

Mulan took a flying leap into Shang's arms. Esmeralda did the same to Phoebus.

"Fuckin' A, boyfriend," cried Mulan, and then kissed him.

"I picked a winner," said Esmeralda with a sultry wink, and kissed him.

"Oh look, Fro-Fro, it's your girlfriend," said Ratcliffe, glancing back at Frollo, who was pressed up against the headboard, knees raised, robes bunched up around his lap, skinny legs bare. His hands were not visible.

"DON'T LOOK AT ME," he shrieked.

"Come come, man, get it together," Clayton scoffed.

* * *

Just because this is the second time in a month I've mentioned Frollo's _pisello_ in a fic does NOT mean I have an obsession with Frollo's penis!

(Well, maybe a little one.)

I just finished the combats today, and hot damn was it difficult. The fact that my head is full of post-op drugs is not helping. So you might notice a severe downswing in the jokes:text ratio because I am just not a funny camper today, and for that I do apologize... but IT WILL GET BETTER.

-Curly


	19. Fight Night, part II

"Standby, Quasi and Aladdin."

Quasi glanced at the remaining men in his corridor. Tarzan and Gaston; not exactly a friendly duo. But he needed a friend. "Hey… Tarzan?"

"Yes, short man?"

"Aha. Um, I was wondering, do you… have any advice? I've never fought anyone before."

"Quasi has never fought before? I don't understand. Never? Quasi's jungle is not dangerous?"

"No… well, now that you mention it, there was one time when it was, and I had to hurt a lot of people to protect my friend."

Tarzan shrugged. "Make like protecting your friend."

"But I know Aladdin isn't trying to hurt her!"

Gaston started to laugh. "Hey! Hey! I got it! Why don't you get him up in the tree, and then _smile at him_? Your face'll knock him on his ass!"

It was so shocking, so out of the blue, that Quasi couldn't reply. Tarzan growled, and then stood and walked over to Quasi. Every muscle in his body was tense. "I not punch him now. He get punched soon. But Aladdin and Mean Bastard Man have same colour hair. Pretend."

Quasi nodded.

"Be angry!"

He nodded again and disappeared behind the curtain.

Meanwhile, Aladdin was having his own freakout.

"I really can't do this," he said.

"Nonsense; you told me yourself you've spent most of your life on the run from the law," said John Smith.

"No, it's not that. Yeah, I could take care of myself. But against _Quasi_?"

"He can fight. He's no weakling."

"Again. Not that. He's just… so… _nice_. Put yourself in my shoes."

John Smith and Simba started to say something, but stopped. "I see what you mean," said Smith.

"I saw him hold the door open for people for a solid half hour yesterday," said Simba.

"I saw him replant a weed that fell out of the landscaper's trash bag," said John Smith.

"And I saw him volunteering to supervise other people's kids in the swimming pool," said Aladdin. "Now I'm expected to go out there and punch him in the face. I mean, I'm a protagonist, for crying out loud. Every one of us is either scrappy or selfish or kind of a dick, not bad guys, but not impossible to punch in the face… Quasi's just… a child abuse victim."

Simba and John Smith both sighed. "Well," said Simba, "think of it like this. He's probably going to try to punch you in the face, so… maybe focus on defending yourself? At least until your fight instinct kicks in?"

Aladdin still wasn't sure, but he slipped behind the curtain anyway.

"Fourth fight; Quasi vs. Aladdin. It could really go either way here. Quasi: 20, occupation: bellringer for Notre Dame de Paris, which has given him strength and agility like you wouldn't believe…"

"That was my error," said Frollo glumly.

"Well, we all make 'em. To err is human." Ursula cleared her throat. "Fine; human-ish. Humanoid. However, he was born with congenital deformities throughout his skeleton, which could be a disadvantage. One win, zero ties, zero losses. Note that the win was of the anti-siege variety.

"Then we have Aladdin. Spunky kid, but a kid nonetheless. Specializes in drastic escapes. Not really any fighting stats for him; he's mostly a 'battle of wits' kinda guy. Place your bets."

"If I may," said Clayton, "Coming from Victorian England, I've seen my fair share of freak shows, and let me tell you, the grotesques never fair very well in cage matches. Ten on Aladdin."

"Ten on the hunchback," said Shan Yu. "From what I've heard, that whelp has a lot of rage."

Quasi was the first competitor to bust through the screen with the proper amount of ferocity. Aladdin had a bit of trouble; when he finally broke through, his momentum was such that he tripped and fell almost immediately. When he scrambled to his feet, he was confronted with perhaps the most frightening image conceivable: Quasi, barreling down the field towards him, looking _angry_. He fought the urge to run and stood his ground. He raised his fists. He winced.

Quasimodo yelled, "I'm going to fight you, GASTON!"

Aladdin was so shocked that he dropped his fists. "Whoa, whoa. I'm Aladdin, remember?"

And then, improbably, Quasi halted, though he kept snarling. "I'm pretending you're Gaston so I'll be able to fight you."

"Ohhhh," said Aladdin, laughing somewhat with relief. "I see. I mean, to be honest, Quasi, I really don't want to fight you either."

Quasi's snarl melted away. "You don't?"

"No. I really don't. I was just saying to the guys…" He jerked his thumb back towards the destroyed screen. "I would be fine fighting anyone except for you."

Quasi looked a bit angry at that, but more surly than snarly. "I don't need your pity."

"Oh, jeez, no, not pity! No, I'm not really a fighter either. Frankly, I'm more of a runner," he shrugged. "What I meant was, you're the least punchable dude here. You're a real good guy, Quasi."

"Oh… thanks," said Quasi, his brow relaxing. "I think you're a really good person too."

"Ok. Cool," said Aladdin. "We agree. Neither of us want to fight each other. But…" he nodded toward the judges table, where Hermes looked like he was about to interject. "We have to do something."

"The fighters seem to be in parley. That's French for shootin' the shit. Folks, I have no idea what's happening right now," said Phil.

"Is it just me, or is this _exactly_ how you pictured this going?" said Esmeralda to Phoebus (the two were snuggling on the WAG bench).

"Finally, something seems to be happening! Quasi takes a swing! Aladdin dodges. Aladdin swings; Quasi dodges! Quasi swings, Aladdin dodges… ok, what's… Oh! Something else is happening. Let's see. Aladdin chases Quasi… Quasi hides behind a boulder… Aladdin's just sort of standing there… what's he think this is, Hide-'n'-Seek? Wait… Quasi seems to be going for the boulder roll. Whoa, he got it going! It's rolling straight for Aladdin! Aladdin, for some reason, is trying to outrun a rolling boulder! It's gathering speed! Quasi's jogging after it! Aladdin's losing ground… he's gonna get crushed if he doesn't dodge… WHOA! Aladdin has leapt up onto the boulder and is backpedalling it down the length of the arena! That takes mad agility, although I don't understand why he didn't just jump off to the side, avoid the boulder altogether…"

"That's only the second time in my life I've ever seen anyone do that," said Phoebus, referring to the time Esmeralda had backpedalled a hanging cage through Place Notre-Dame.

"And Aladdin jumps backwards off the boulder just before it crashes into a wall! Quasi's closing in on him!"

"That was amazing!" hollered Quasi with a huge grin on his face.

"Told you I could do it!"

"You sure showed me!"

"How about you? Anything you'd like to show off?"

"Well…"

"Wait, we should probably take a few swings at each other while you think," said Aladdin.

"Oh right," said Quasi, and swung his fist. "Well, I'm really good at swinging from ropes. I don't have a rope, but those vine things on the tree could work. We'd have to get pretty high up, though."

"We can do that," said Aladdin, trying out a roundhouse kick, which Quasi ducked.

"And then when we get to the top, you can kick me out of the tree, and half-way down I'll grab a vine and swing to a lower branch."

"I don't know, man, I don't like the thought of you freefalling like that."

"Oh, trust me, I do it all the time."

"Well, if you say so, come on, let's go!"

"I can honestly say, I have _never_ seen a fight like this. Either they're not trying to connect, or their hand-eye coordination needs some serious work. They seem to be headed toward the tree…"

A few minutes later, Quasi had landed safely on the lowest bough while Aladdin whooped from up high. "Do it again!"

"Should I?" called Quasi with a toothy grin.

"Why not? They crowd loved it!"

"You wanna try?"

"You serious?"

"It's not as hard as it looks! Hang on, let me get back up there and I'll give you tips."

"Quasi ascends the tree. Aladdin's just waiting for him – is he gonna kick him out again? The two are just dancing around each other… Quasi dives for him… now it's Aladdin falling! He's grabbing at thin air! This might be the end of the fight! Oh, I can't watch… Whoa, he caught it! Aladdin caught the vine! He's shaking all over!"

"You did it!" Quasi whooped.

"Oh man, barely," said Aladdin giddily.

"Not bad for your first time."

"Alright, Quasi, it's been great," said Aladdin as he started to climb, "But I think it's time to wrap this up."

"You're probably right. You can win. This was your idea, anyway. If you kick me out of the tree again, I promise I'll just land on the ground."

"Yeah right. Nobody deserves to win more than you, Quasi. Hey. I've already got two sequels and a TV show."

"Oh… I'm sorry."

"No, that's just the thing! One of my sequels was actually kind of good! You deserve this way more than me."

Quasi hopped down to meet him halfway. "You think I'm just going to let you lose?"

"I _know_ you are."

"I don't think so."

"Wanna bet?"

"Huh, so Quasi and Aladdin have finally decided to actually put their hands on each other… but I've never seen a tussle like this! If I didn't know any better, it almost looks like they're trying to keep each other _in_ the tree. _What_ is going on here, folks?"

"Aladdin, just… _ugh_… let me _go_!"

"No way. Quit shoving."

"Back off!"

"Just _win_ already! Don't be such a baby!"

"Why do you think he keeps looking over at you?" said Meg to Esmeralda from her perch on Hercules' lap.

"What? He's not looking at me," said Esmeralda. But Quasi _did_ keep darting glances over to the WAG bench. Esmeralda followed his gaze to her left. "Ohhh, I know what he's doing. God, what a sap."

"And WHOA! Quasi goes flying out of the tree – doesn't catch the vine this time – lands on the ground! Oof, that's gotta hurt! Is he gonna get up? Is he – I don't think he's getting up! Down for the count…"

Aladdin landed lightly beside Quasi's body. "Jeez, Quasi, are you OK?" he cried.

"Hang on one second," said Quasi into the dirt.

"Three… two… one… ALADDIN WINS!"

Quasi leapt to his feet, grinning slyly. "Good fight. Look behind you."

Aladdin turned just in time to catch Jasmine in his arms. Quasi watched them kiss with a big goofy smile on his face.

"Erm… Judges confirmed, Aladdin wins," said Hermes, although he didn't sound very sure at all.

Quasi joined Phoebus and Esmeralda on the WAG bench. Phoebus grabbed him and gave him a congratulatory noogie. Esmeralda hugged him close and whispered, "Quasi, did you just let Aladdin win so he would look good in front of his girlfriend?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Quasi unconvincingly.

"…Tarzan vs. Simba! I know that last one was a little weird – my apologies to Mr. Yu – but this one's gonna kick all sorts a tail. Literally! So we got Tarzan, feral sonofabitch ["Couldn't have said it better myself," Clayton sneered], raised by gorillas. He's got a thing with big cats; seems one killed his parents and his foster mother's first son, and he knows how to take 'em down. No onscreen evidence of him having fought lions, but his records are crazy – tons of wins, zero ties, zero losses.

"And then we have Simba. I gotta say, I have a real soft spot for this kid, with all due respect to Mr. Scar, of course. He's got a real hedonistic streak. Onscreen record is, again, one win, zero ties, zero losses, although it should be said that Simba is untested in situations where his opponent is _not_ responsible for the destruction of his life and that of everyone he knows… place your bets!"

The light blinked. Just before Simba walked out, he poked his head back around the curtain and got Smith's attention. "Hey… if he kills me—"

"He's not going to kill you."

"IF HE KILLS ME," said Simba very seriously, "Please tell Nala and my daughter Kiara that I told you to tell them I love them."

"Pardon?"

"I mean, they know I do, but you telling them I told you to tell them would be a nice touch."

"I really don't think he's going to kill you, mate."

Simba snorted with disbelief and clawed through the screen. Smith privately admitted that if anyone were to kill anyone, it would probably be Tarzan.

Flouting the established convention, Jane stood, picked her way behind the four-princess buffer, and crouched next to the wife of her husband's opponent. "Nala dear, before all the violence starts, I hoped we could have a quick word."

Nala regarded her with some trepidation. "Sure?"

"Well, I know we haven't known each other for very long, but I will freely admit that I rather like you."

"Oh… I, er, like you too, Jane."

"And I think all this combat business is complete nonsense, to be perfectly honest."

Nala breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh my god, so do I. I thought I was the only one."

"Not at all, I'm sure. And I just wanted to make sure, I mean, both our husbands are very fit, and the fight could really go either way, but I hope, whatever the outcome, there will be no hard feelings between us?"

Nala smiled. "None, I promise."

"Oh, I'm glad," said Jane as she clambered over the bench and plunked herself between Tiana and Nala.

"Thank god for you, girl," Tiana whispered to Jane. "It was gettin' a bit bloodthirsty up in here."

By the time Simba had entered the arena, Tarzan was already perched at the very top of the tree. He was snarling. Simba sighed.

"Hey, Tarzan, you're gonna have to come down."

Tarzan unleashed his signature cry. "Tarzan is waiting, NUMA!"

"Yeah, I get that, but, listen, there's no way I'm getting up there. I can't climb trees. It's just not gonna happen."

"Don't be a liar. Tarzan knows. Your cousin Sabor strikes from the trees!"

"Ok." Simba pushed his mane back irritably. "I don't know what a 'Sabor' is, but I'm guessing he's a leopard or something… anyway, that's different. I live in the grasslands. I've never had occasion to climb a tree in my life. We're going to have to figure something else out."

"Oy vey… Folks, I really don't know what to say… Simba's refusing to climb the tree, Tarzan's refusing to come down, I think we're in for a long match if one of 'em doesn't budge soon…"

"CLIMB THE TREE! CLIMB THE TREE!" roared the audience.

"LIONS DON'T CLIMB TREES!" replied Simba, a bit of a growling edge of annoyance to his voice.

"But they do," said Jane confusedly. "In certain parts…"

"Wait, actually?" said Nala.

"Yes. …Don't they?" said Jane haltingly. "I'm sure my father's research into the subject isn't wrong…"

"Well, I can't say I've ever _studied_ lions," said Nala. "I've just been one my whole life, is all… they never had any of us up in trees. In the movie, at least."

"All right, fine!" said Simba. "You want me up in the tree, you want to make me look like a moron, fine. I'll get up in the friggin…" Simba backed up a few paces and took a running leap. Somehow, he managed to find purchase in the branches. "Hey, wait a minute…"

"YOU CAN DO IT, HONEY!" Nala roared.

Carefully, Simba leapt up to another, higher branch. "Hey! I'm doing it!"

"Alright, now we're cookin'! Simba's taking his sweet time up the tree, but he seems to be finding his footing. Tarzan's just going insane up there, hollerin', beatin' his chest, gnashin' his teeth, some good old-fashioned pre-fight intimidation tactics. You may not believe this, but I've seen skirmishes won and lost based on which side managed to scare the pants off the other before the first charge! Tarzan's just waiting it out, not rushing into anything… although I don't mind saying that this whole thing could use a bit of rushing, if ya know what I mean… Oh, yes! Finally, our fighters engage! Tarzan lunges. Simba ducks. Tarzan catches a branch, swings himself around, lunges again. Simba dodges. He's really making Tarzan work; looks like he's struggling to hold his footing. Tarzan jumps at him, Simba dodgesWHOA! Simba loses his footing, tumbles halfway down the tree! He's holding on by his front paws, hind legs just dangling there, nothing for them to grab onto! He's slipping! He's lookin' real scared!"

"Not this shit again," muttered Nala.

"NOT THIS SHIT AGAIN," yelled Simba.

"Tarzan knows an opportunity when he sees one! He's kicking at Simba's paws, hoping he can win this whole thing if Simba falls hard enough! Simba's not letting go, but I don't see how he can salvage this… Tarzan's a ruthless bastard… He did it! Simba is in freefall – NO, scratch that, Simba catches a vine with his teeth and manages to land safely on all fours! He's trying to collect himself… Tarzan is not happy, he was counting on that fall… Tarzan swings to the ground, and the fighters engage… holy shit. I can honestly say that I am uncomfortable with the violence happening in the arena right now."

And Phil fell silent as Tarzan attempted to crush every organ in Simba's body, while Simba slashed every inch of skin he could reach. The cheers from the crowd were replaced by cries of horror. The AniMedics began to inch forward.

"My uncle would not approve of this," said Roy Disney dully.

"Tell me when it's over," whimpered Nala, burying her face in her paws.

"Me also," said Jane, her face pressed into Nala's coat.

"STOP THE FIGHT, YOU MORONS!" screeched Deminda, who had just burst into the judge's skybox.

"Can't do that, D, sorry," said Hermes. "Rules are, down for three…"

"YOU BLUE IDIOT, CHANGE THE RULES OR I'LL FIND SOME WAY TO KILL YOUR IMMORTAL ASS," she bellowed as she pummeled him with her clipboard.

Back in the League of Villain's hotel room, Scar and Clayton fist-bumped.

Finally, Simba managed to get a clamp on Tarzan's shoulder and shook him until he stopped moving.

"Three… two… one…" said Phil shakily. "Simba wins?"

Simba collapsed. So did Deminda.

The AniMedics patched up the fighters quickly and by the time Nala and Jane made it to center field, Tarzan and Simba were up and talking.

"So, that got a bit carried away," said Simba testily.

"I am sorry," said Tarzan. "Tarzan should not let fight instinct rule like that. I do some soul-searching."

"Same with me," said Simba. "Out in the wild, we fight to the death. I'm sorry too."

"Fighting for sport is human game. Not for us."

"Couldn't agree more, pal," said Simba. Tarzan extended his hand. Simba raised his paw and let Tarzan squeeze his toe.

"Oh good, so you've patched things up?" said Jane shrilly.

"Jane!" said Tarzan gleefully. He approached her. She slapped him.

"Tarzan make hurt on Numa," she shrieked. "Why go so far? _Hoo-hoo-hee_, wild animal you, no different than dumb poacher _oo-ahhhh-ooh_!"

"Jane, I say sorry! No _eeh-hoo-hoo_ go Numa, all good!" Tarzan pleaded.

"You die, I _haaaa_ what do!" said Jane.

"I love you," said Tarzan.

"I love you," said Jane. Tarzan swept her up into his arms and kissed her. She slapped him once more for good measure. Then he carried her back to the WAG bench, where they continued to kiss.

Simba and Nala watched them go. Then Simba had to face Nala. He grinned sheepishly.

"Simba…"

"Yeah, I know."

"Simba, I swear to God…"

"It was way too much. I get it. I went overboard."

"Because…"

"I know. It was bad. Really bad. I'm so sorry."

"Listen, you need to stop getting yourself into these situations where you're hanging precariously off cliffs or other such ledges. Ok? It never ends well. It just upsets you and leaves you in a shitty mood for days. And I will never for the life of me understand how you are _constantly in these situations where you're hanging precariously off ledges_. Just… avoid high places from now on. Ok? Promise me?"

"Babe, we live on a large rock formation."

"Just say you promise."

"Ok. Fine. I promise." He stepped forward and nuzzled her neck. She purred and nuzzled him back. "Awwwww," said the audience.

* * *

Merry Christmas Eve, everyone, and for those not celebrating Christmas, a very happy holidays! Peace on earth and goodwill towards humankind, all that. For unto us a national holiday is bestowed, and good moods abound.

-Curlz


	20. Fight Night, part III

Meanwhile, Deminda was still sprawled on the floor of the skybox.

"Come, child, rise now, it's all over," said Grandmother Willow soothingly as she stroked Deminda's face with one of her vines.

"Nope… not gonna happen…" Deminda mumbled.

"You are needed. Now is your time."

"I'm unconscious," she snapped.

"Ought we let her rest a spell?" said Carlotta nervously.

"Mesdames, if you will permit me, I have just the thing to get her going," said Clopin. He stood by her head, bowed low, and farted.

Deminda punched him square in the chin, but she had to admit that she was glad he'd gotten her off the ground. "Standby, Gaston and John Smith," she said into her radio.

"_Salôpe_," hissed Clopin as he massaged his chin.

"Okee dokee," said Hades, raking his fingers through his flaming hair. "That was disturbing by anyone's standards, I think we can agree. Congratulations to those who bet on the Lion. Moving right along: John Smith vs. our boy Gaston!

"Smith's fight record comes from a few lines at the beginning of his movie that seem to allude to a very uncomfortable history of violence against indigenous peoples of various colonized lands. Onscreen, he's got no real wins, one sort-of draw, and one sort-of loss. The draw, best I can guess, comes from holding off an attacker just long enough for his buddy to step in and shoot the guy; we can assume that he would have been a goner otherwise. As for the loss, he took a bullet for his girlfriend's father, which could mean two things: either he's noble to a fault, or hornier than Frollo over here."

"It's not my fault_,_" Frollo growled. "I'm not to blame."

"I'm kidding, buddy, I'm kidding. As for Gaston – well, there's about thirty confirmed kills of various antler-bearing creatures, plus one major onscreen kill, as I mentioned before. Sadly for him, he slipped and fell, which says more about his location selection than his fighting skills. But, we know he's got a bit of an antagonist's streak, so we won't see any misguided nobility outta him. Lady and gentlemen, please place your final bets."

_Pow_. John Smith felt the heat from the bullet as it whizzed by his ear not one second after the light blinked. He raised a shaking finger to the bullet hole in the screen and tore it open, counting on the precious reloading seconds to get himself some cover.

Gaston was ready. John dodged two arrows before he was safely behind a boulder. _Damn_. He had let that idiot get the upper hand on him. He didn't even really know where Gaston was, whereas he _knew_ Gaston knew where he was. Had he already lost?

And that's when the cheering of the crowd coalesced into a single repeated phrase: "KILL GASTON! KILL GASTON!" He listened, smiling. He could take a hint.

Ten minutes later, the cheering had died down to tense silence, breaking into applause whenever a shot was fired. Ten minutes after that, the tense silence had lapsed into hushed conversation; ten minutes _after that_, the conversation was no longer hushed.

Smith knew they'd each been given ten bullets. By his count, they were each down to their last. There were a few pockmarks on the front of each of their boulders. Smith's helmet had also taken a beating, though by some miracle his head hadn't been in it at the time (he'd ducked so fast that, as though in a cartoon, his helmet had lingered in the air.) (Then again, he _was_ a cartoon.)

More serious was the wound over his bicep. The bullet had barely grazed it, but it was still bleeding. He wouldn't ask for a time out, though. This was war.

Taking a deep breath, he snaked the nose of his musket over the top of the boulder and inched his way up. He thought he could see Gaston. He fired. He heard Gaston fire. This time, his opponent's shot went too high. He had no idea whether he'd hit Gaston – unlikey – but he knew Gaston was out of bullets.

He also knew Gaston was down two arrows, which was good, because Smith was rubbish at archery. And he had a new plan: get up in the tree, gain a height advantage. Summoning every ounce of stealth, he possessed he began to inch out from behind his boulder—

"And Smith heads for the tree, possibly hoping to gain a height advantage!"

"Thanks a lot, mate!" Smith hollered as he sprinted the rest of the way like a jackrabbit, miraculously avoiding the three arrows Gaston sent whizzing his way. He slid behind a thick, low bough just as another arrow lodged itself deeply into it. Smith cursed and fired two arrows, barely aiming, and then set about climbing. He expected a hail of arrows to follow, but Gaston was running low. Finally, about halfway up, Smith paused and scanned the field… and looked straight down the barrel of Gaston's musket. He barely had time to leap behind the trunk before Gaston pumped a hole in the foliage. The bastard had been firing empty shots! Smith had no idea how many bullets he had left!

And so it went until the two fighters found themselves sucked dry of all projectiles, and it was at this point that a raging Gaston threw himself into the tree to take Smith out once and for all.

"How would you score this part?" said Menken to Ashman.

"I'm the lyricist, remember?"

Menken rolled his eyes. "Ok, how would you _lyricize_ this part?"

"Eh… 'They're fighting to the death, but they're not gonna die, I think Gaston just elbowed John Smith in the eye'…"

"OW, MY EYE," Smith hollered. Menken and Ashman glanced at each other, mouths open.

"Did I just…"

"Do it again! Do it again!" said Menken, clapping his hands gleefully.

"Ok." Ashman sat forward and rubbed his hands together excitedly. " 'Two men in a tree, with no love between 'em; Gaston deserves a swift kick in the perineum…'"

Smith kicked blindly and nailed Gaston right in the taint. Menken and Ashman high-fived.

"Ok, but seriously, I should probably stop," said Ashman. "That was fun, though."

John Smith and Gaston found themselves standing opposite each other, clutching overhead branches for balance, barely within arms' reach, panting and snarling. Neither of them had an advantage over the other. So it was pure luck that, when they both lashed at each other simultaneously, all Gaston managed to do was leave a scratch across John's forehead, while John took a firm hold of his belt (mostly by accident) and pulled him completely off the branch.

It had been so unexpectedly easy that John completely forgot to release his grip, and by the time he realized what was going on he was wrapped sloth-like around the branch while Gaston dangled off his extended arm. He had Smith's forearm in a vice grip and was not letting go. But instead of snarling and spitting, Gaston was a terrified, gibbering mess.

"All right! You win," he sobbed. "I forfeit! Just p-please don't let me fall again!"

Smith's shoulder was howling in protest, but he barely registered the pain. "Are you serious?"

"I know, I know, but this is how I died and I REALLY don't want to go through it again, just p-please pull me up, I'll forfeit, I swear!"

He was so terrified, so pathetic, that Smith found himself pitying the fool. "All right. I'm pulling you up. But you're a heavy fucker, so give me a hand."

"Th-thank you. Thank you."

It took a lot of bellowing and spitting, but Gaston's hands finally found purchase on the branch. John Smith eased himself to his feet and prepared to climb down.

But Adam's words ripped through his mind – _"Don't turn your back on him. Not for anything!_" – and without even thinking about it, he turned and kicked.

And Gaston tumbled to the earth in a wide arc, screaming and flailing, one hand still clutching the knife he'd been _this close_ to thrusting into Smith's back.

"JOHN SMITH WINS!"

Smith landed lightly on the ground and approached Gaston's splayed body cautiously. The arena seemed to be holding its breath.

Then, Belle leapt to her feet and screamed "HELL YEAH!" and everyone followed suit. Before Smith could breath, he was caught up in a crush of his fellow competitors, all of whom were clamouring to shake his hand or clap his back. Hercules squeezed him so tightly that he almost passed out. Even Kocoum afforded him a deep nod. Belle kissed his cheeks vigorously. Suddenly, Smith was in the air, born on the chiseled shoulders of Phoebus and Hercules.

And right in front of him was his love, his lady, his Pocahontas, perched delicately on Eric and Adam's shoulders. Without thinking, he reached for her and they kissed in front of thousands of people.

It was Deminda's job to carry the trophy from the display case in the amphitheatre's lobby to the arena, so she watched the amorous celebration on a closed circuit TV, smiling dreamily. Then she heaved the giant brass Mickey into her arms and turned to leave when a very Billy Zane-sounding voice stopped her.

"Excuse me," it said, "I'm looking for my wife. I was wondering if you could tell me where I might find Pocahontas Rolfe?"

John Rolfe looked grim, but not enraged, which meant that he hadn't noticed what was transpiring on the TV screen. Deminda panicked. "Oh, Mr. Rolfe, good to see you! My name is Deminda O'Kelly, and if you'll come with me I can get you set up in a room…"

"I'd like to see my wife first."

"I'll find her for you and send her to your room. We have some lovely suites…"

"Listen, I told you, I want to see my wife!"

So Deminda whacked him across the head with the trophy. It was the best she could think of. Luckily, two-dee physics did not fail her: Rolfe crumpled to the ground and slept soundly. "Sorry about that," she whispered, taking hold of his ankles. "It's not you. It's Disney."

Meanwhile, the League of Villains had reached a bit of a ceasefire – the past few hours had been a blur of people stealing each others' winnings and declaring war when the thefts were discovered. The silence was broken by Ursula's cell phone ring, which was _not_ "Poor Unfortunate Souls", but Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor". "God save us all, it's _Fucking Sarouche_," she moaned.

The villains groaned. "Please tell me you're kidding," said Scar.

"Who?" said Frollo.

"I'm not kidding. Look." Ursula showed them her iPhone, and sure enough, the words "Fucking Sarouche" were illuminated across the screen.

"Get rid of him, woman," said Jafar.

"With pleasure… OH FUCK ME I PRESSED ANSWER Sarouche, darling!" said Urusla through gritted teeth.

"Hey, Ursula," said Sarouche through the speaker. Everyone clenched their fists in fury. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to hang out this weekend. I've got some really good ideas for schemes…"

"I'm sure you do, dear," said Ursula. "And you know how I love your schemes. Grand theft bell. Genius. But I must tell you, I'm rather busy this weekend… personal things, you know."

"Oh, sure. Maybe some of the other guys'll be free."

"To be sure, to be sure," said Ursula with a gleam in her eye. The rest of the villains got where she was going; they shook their heads vigorously. "You should call them. Each and every one."

"Great idea! I'll do that! Thanks, Urs! You're great!"

"Always a pleasure, my dear." Ursula ended the call and reclined, laughing to herself, as Jafar's phone rang (also Toccata and Fugue).

"You bitch," he snarled, as "Fucking Sarouche" flashed across his screen.

The AniMedics took a while with Gaston – not only had he fallen from a great height, but he'd also gotten a bit trampled in the ensuing celebration. Finally, it was time to announce the scores. The heroes were standing in a friendly clump centerfield, arms slung around each other – strangely enough, this whole combat thing had made them buddies instead of enemies. Simba was up on his hind legs, leaning heavily on Shang to his left and Adam to his right, his bushy head towering over everyone else's. Of course, Gaston was alone, standing haughtily off to the side. It was a pathetic sight.

The stadium lights dimmed, and spotlights appeared over the cluster of competitors. Hermes hopped out of the judges skybox and hovered overhead under his own spotlight. "Could Eric, Adam, Phoebus, Quasimodo, Tarzan and Gaston please step forward."

They did, and their spotlights followed them. It looked very dramatic. It also kind of looked like the opening scene of the movie _RENT_.

"Remember that the losing combatants will be awarded a score from 1 to 9. Eric, fighting with wooden shank – 5."

Eric's spotlight went out. The judges felt bad about that one. Eric was completely outmatched. But the sad fact was, the fight had been whacky chase scene more than a fight.

"Adam, fighting with Greco-Roman wrestling – 7."

The judges wished they could have scored Adam higher; the fact that he'd held his own against Hercules was laudable. But, nearly winning by holding one's opponent's head in one's mouth was not exactly considered Disney heroic behaviour.

"Phoebus, fighting with sword – 8."

Easy enough. The fight was basically even. He would have taken the 9, if not for…

"Quasi, fighting on terrain – 9."

Debate had raged about this fight. Everyone was pretty sure that Quasimodo had thrown the fight and thus deserved a tying score with his opponent, if not a higher score. Ultimately, the decision fell to Clopin, with the rationale that Clopin could guess Quasi's actions best, but Clopin had insisted on answering every question with a naughty limerick and eventually they ran out of time.

"Tarzan, fighting hand-to-hand – 6."

Tarzan been freaking vicious. At least Adam had made sure Hercules' body remained attached to his head. Tarzan would have afforded him no such kindness.

"And lastly, Gaston, fighting with musket and bow-and-arrow – 2."

The 2 was the lowest score their collective consciences would allow them to give. Concealing a knife was sneaky and awful, but sadly, the Disney morality code stated that if a _protagonist_ were to conceal a knife, it would be considered a sign of shrewdness and preparedness.

"Thank you, gentlemen." The scored contestants went off to WAG bench, except for Gaston, who stormed out of the amphitheatre. Spotlights rose over the remaining contestants.

"Kocoum, fighting with granite shank – 11."

"Hercules, fighting with Greco-Roman wrestling – 12." Hercules' win couldn't be too well-regarded, given that the boy's whole deal was supernatural strength.

"Shang, fighting with sword – 14."

"Aladdin, fighting on terrain – 10."

"Simba, fighting hand-to-hand – 13."

"And lastly, John Smith, fighting with musket and bow-and-arrow – 15." No contest. His shooting skills hadn't been anything fantastic, but the way he had anticipated Gaston's deception deserved every point in the world.

Deminda appeared at the arena door looking notably more mussed and breathless than usual, and she bestowed the gaudy trophy on John Smith while the crowd cheered. The lights flooded the stadium once more. Hermes cracked a bottle of champagne and sprayed it over the heroes and heroines, who left the arena in a happy clump of good feelings. John Smith and Pocahontas led the charge, hand in hand, smiling harder than they had in a long time, all of the previous night's grief forgotten.

Forgotten, that is, until a disheveled-looking John Rolfe staggered into view around a corner. "Pocahontas," he cried, hand pressed over a nasty goose egg on his forehead.

"John!" she squeaked.

"Rolfe?"

"Smith?"

"What are you doing here?"

"What are YOU doing here?"

"Dammit," said Deminda, and jogged toward the awkward triangle. Rolfe pointed.

"You! You knocked me out and locked me in a supply closet! Is _this_ what you didn't want me to see?"

"You did _what_?" said Smith.

"Gentlemen, please…" Rolfe raised his hands defensively, as though Deminda would strike him again.

"John…" said Pocahontas.

"Yes?" said the Johns. Pocahontas sighed.

"Husband," she clarified. "There's a lot to… to explain…"

And so the Rolfes went off to have the mother of all marital disputes, while everyone else clucked sympathetically and John Smith just stood there looking lost.

"Shit," said Deminda.

"Hey, roomie," said Hercules, grabbing Smith's shoulders from behind. "Let's get you into the shower, eh? And after that, Dionysus is waiting for us."

"Ah. Dionysus. God of getting drunk, right?" said Smith hollowly. "That sounds like an excellent idea."

* * *

If this chapter sounds more awkward than the rest, it's because I wrote it in a very "it looks like I'm smuggling tennis balls in my cheeks" kind of mood. And I will be taking an updating break, at least until the New Year. But I should tell you, what I've written, I am debating whether or not to post... I'll come clean. It's a chapter in which everybody gets makeovers. It's my super-frivolous, completely un-crucial Christmas present to myself... so, I might post it with a huge disclaimer at the top in the vein of "If you skip this chapter you will lose absolutely no plot information", or I might post it as a stand-alone one-shot, or I might just keep it to myself. I dunno.

Merry Christmas, everyone, hope you enjoyed your presents (or Chinese food if you're Jewish), and Happy New Year!

-Curly


	21. The Girls Get Makeovers

**DISCLAIMER: THIS WHOLE CHAPTER IS ABOUT EVERYONE GETTING MAKEOVERS. THERE'S SOME PLOT SHIT IN THERE BUT MOSTLY IT'S MAKEOVERS. IF YOU HATE MAKEOVERS I WILL NOT BE OFFENDED IF YOU SKIP THIS CHAPTER. HOWEVER THE MAKEOVERS ARE FUCKING AWESOME.**

* * *

The men and women split off at that point to get ready for the evening – Deminda had organized a club night in the Evafta ballroom.

"So much booze, you guys. Seriously, so much," she had promised.

Belle had very sheepishly invited the other princesses to join them for their "getting ready" party, apologizing profusely in the process of not inviting them on their trip to Yesdin in the first place. "No need," Cinderella had smarmed, a triumphant glint in her eyes. "And if I may, why not move your little _fête_ from your and Nala's little double room to our luxury suite?"

"That sounds wonderful."

"I've called up a friend to style us," she'd added.

"Even more wonderful," Belle had said. _Oh god, not the mice_, she'd thought.

Turns out, it wasn't the mice.

"Bibbity-bobbity-boo!" cried Cinderella's Fairy Godmother, and with a flash and an excessive amount of sparkles, a solitary bottle of champagne morphed into a towering champagne waterfall. The ladies all cheered and helped themselves. "Now, ladies, who's first?"

"Well, you know I'll be easy," Cinderella giggled.

"Damn right," whispered Aurora, and everyone laughed.

"Hm," said Fairy G. "In that case, how about a little Veronica Lake?" She wiggled her wand and Cinderella was engulfed in a hail of sparkles; when they cleared, her hair covered one of her eyes in a sultry wave and her dress had grown a good deal tighter. The neckline plunged. She posed.

"Whoa," said the ladies breathlessly.

"Me next!" cried Jane. "Oh, I know I'm being terribly rude, but you have to understand, I've taken about twenty showers since I've been here and I still feel like I smell like the jungle…"

"Of course, my dear, of course," said Fairy G, ushering her to where Cinderella had been standing. "Now what sort of thing did you have in mind?"

"I… have no idea," said Jane bashfully. "I've never been to a _club_, you see."

"Well, let me see… Victorian England, am I right, my dear? Crossed, of course, with a certain proclivity for the natural world… oh, I might have just the thing." Several sparkles later, Jane was swishing around in an off-the-shoulder cheetah-print number with a short, poufy skirt, flounced in parts to show off her hot pink petticoat. It was crazy-looking and it suited her perfectly. Her hair was curled and pinned away from her face.

"Oh, marvelous!"

"I couldn't agree more, dear. Snow White, let's get you out of the way… I won't be hussying you up as much as these girls, my conscience wouldn't allow it. How about _this_?"

"This" turned out to be a red flapper dress – fairly modest while still glamorous, and Snow White's uncomfortable lack of boobs didn't matter. Her accustomed red hair bow was re-angled around her head with a sassy black plume. She giggled and shimmied off to test out her dancing shoes.

"Belle's turn!" said Cinderella, who was really playing up this benevolent forgiver angle.

"No need, I have a dress…"

"Are you really going to turn down one of my makeovers? Now stand up straight, dear. We all know how well gold suits you, but let's try for something a little less _bridal_…"

This time, there were plenty of sparkles left behind. Belle's dress was barely there: a little silver sheath, held up by two string-thin straps, hanging just past her bum in bedazzled silver folds, cinched at the waist and tied with a ribbon sash. Her hair was teased up in a Brigitte Bardot pouf. On her feet were strappy silver heels tied with pointe shoe ribbons. Part-pixie, part-go-go dancer, all sex goddess.

At that point, Esmeralda tried to slip quietly through the door, but Belle noticed. "Esmeralda! You look amazing."

She did – she'd packed her favourite dancing dress for an occasion just like this. Scarlet silk stretched tightly across her buff torso.

"I don't understand your abs," said Mulan enviously.

Esmeralda grinned modestly. "I made it out of an old tent."

And that was the last she said before Fairy G waved her wand and added a pair of gold stilettos. She fixed Esmeralda's hair, too – now her thick black cloud of hair was clean and shiny to boot. The vintage princesses cast jealous glances at her.

"Who next, who next…" Fairy G cast her eye around the waiting group of girls, looking for inspiration. "Ah! You, Mulan. I have just the thing."

"I think you should do something Oriental-inspired!" said Aurora cheerily. The 90s girls looked at her funny. "What'd I say?"

"It's fine, she's from the 50s," said Mulan impassively. "But I'd rather _avoid_ the whole Asian masseuse chick look tonight, if it's all the same to you."

"Bibbity-bobbity-boo!"

Asian masseuse chick this was _not_; Fairy G had picked a red mini dress covered in tassels, topped with a loose curly chignon. Mulan grinned as she twirled in front of the mirror, sending the tassels flying.

"And it matches your Asian glow," teased Jasmine, pinching Mulan's now-flaming pink cheeks. Mulan swatted her hands away.

"How about me?" said Aurora. "I'll take a poll: should I go pink or blue tonight?"

"How about neither?" said Fairy G, and upon Aurora she bestowed a very 60s acid-green mini dress with a high neck and a bare back, pumps to match. Her hair was up in a sleek French twist. "Green suits a blonde."

"My goodness, you're right," said Aurora as she admired herself in the glass.

"Ariel! No question of how to dress _you_, love."

And then her half-1980s-half-1880s gown was replaced with an insane minidress, tight sparkling green lamé with a purple seashell bodice. Her tragic 80s teased bangs situation gave way to a head full of candy-apple-red spiral curls that swung about in the air almost as well as her usual hairstyle did underwater.

"Jasmine, love, did you have anything in mind?"

"I trust you completely," said Jasmine sweetly.

"All right, then: how about this?"

This outfit came with a lot of jingling. Jasmine tried to smile. "A… belly dancing belt?"

"You have such a good stomach, my dear."

"Yes…" Jasmine bit her lip. "It's lovely, but I was hoping for something a little less…" She glanced at Mulan for help.

"Stereotypical?" Mulan offered. Fairy G blushed.

"Oh, curse my doddering old lady mind. Of course. Well, I still like the midriff, but… let's go back to your _real_ roots. Something a little more 90s?"

"Now _this_ I love." The bikini top was gold lamé, as were her tight pants. Her shoes were Spice Girl platforms and there was a fabulous white furry shrug slung around her shoulders. Her iconic hair tumbled over one shoulder from a very high ponytail affixed with a sparkly gold circlet. A few tendrils curled around her face.

"Tiana! I barely saw you there. Come forward, dear, don't be shy. Was there anything in particular you wanted?"

"No, but, I mean, is it… safe?"

Fairy G looked a little affronted, but Belle interjected. "It's nothing against you, Godmother. She's had a few run-ins with dark magic in the past."

"Ah. I see. No, dear, I assure you, there's not a dark bone in my body."

Tiana didn't look entirely convinced, but she smiled and allowed Fairy G to usher her forward.

"I don't know what it is about you, dear, but you quite remind me of the 60s…"

"Oh, that's not me. That's just the author. She's a huge fan of my voice actor Anika, and Anika was in _Dreamgirls_. That's probably it."

"Very likely," Fairy G agreed. "Well, I always say one should always go with one's gut."

Her gut produced a glamourous updo and a sparkly pink welcome-to-the-60s dress that reflected bits of light over the walls. "My goodness," Tiana breathed.

"Meg! Meg! Meg!" chanted the girls. Meg smirked and glided forward.

Fairy G looked her up and down. "Dearie, I'm surprised the intro to 'Big Spender' doesn't accompany you everywhere you go. Look at those hips. I'm sorry, I just can't resist…"

Gone were the unflattering magenta folds. In its place, a glittering black strapless with a sweetheart neckline. Her skirt parted in the front as high as Disney would dare and finished in a short train that grazed the floor, framing two fantastic legs that ended in matching pumps. Long black gloves, a black feather boa, and some serious diamonds completed the look. Her signature ponytail was left pretty much as-is, with a few more ringlets and some rhinestones pinned throughout to tart it up a bit. The ladies hollered their approval.

And it was at this point that the door swung open very slowly, revealing a shaking and tearstained Pocahontas.

The ladies immediately fell upon her, patting her shoulders and whispering encouraging things. Someone shoved a champagne _coupe_ in her hand and someone else ushered her into an armchair. Then they gathered 'round to listen.

"This is the worst I've ever felt," she sniffed.

"Tell us about it, girl," said Tiana.

"John – my husband John – he kept saying, 'Tell me the truth! Tell me the truth!' And I kept telling him, 'No, you don't want to hear the truth. The truth is awful.'"

"So what _is_ the truth?" said Jane quietly.

"Well, John is my husband. We share the same values and morals, and we're a good pair, a good team, we have goals, we've made sacrifices for each other. We take care of each other."

"That sounds like a good marriage," said Mulan.

"But with John Smith it's different."

"How so?"

"Well… put it this way. When we met, I didn't speak a word of English, and he didn't speak Algonquin, but we communicated perfectly. It was magic. …Literally."

"Ohhhhh…"

"Yeah. It's a patented Disney love. We were literally drawn to look good together. We're inexplicable soul mates, totally meant for one another, better together than apart – I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but neither of us have _that_ much personality of our own. Everything we are was specifically designed to fit together. The movie's not about _me_. It's about _us_. Some of you must understand."

They did. "Oh, god, you didn't tell John Rolfe all this, did you?" said Belle.

"Well, eventually, yeah, I did. He just kept pushing and finally he convinced me that honesty was a good idea."

"And was it?"

"Um…"

* * *

"Well, that clears everything up," Rolfe had said in an eerily calm voice.

"…It does?"

"Sure it does! Everything makes sense now! You _would_ love me, _if only my colouring were different!_"

"No!"

"And you would love me _if we communicated by magic forest spirit language_!"

"I **do** love you."

"Really? Well, it sounds like you would love me more if I _ran down to the drugstore and bought a bottle of peroxide_. And then maybe you can forget all your English and we'll just _listen with our hearts_, and we won't have a problem."

* * *

"And then it just became impossible to talk to him, so I came here," said Pocahontas into a tissue.

"Ok… do you mind if I play devil's advocate for a minute here?" said Esmeralda tentatively.

"Sure?"

"Well, if it's like you said, and what you have with John Smith outmatches what you have with John Rolfe… doesn't that answer your question?"

"Um…" Pocahontas hid her face in her hands. "No. I don't know."

"You haven't touched your champagne," said Cinderella, who, like the rest of the vintage princesses, looked a bit uncomfortable at all this mention of relationship complications.

"Oh…" Pocahontas looked at the glass in her hand like she hadn't noticed it before. "I don't drink. Never have."

"Well, now's a good time to start, I say."

"Will it help?"

Most of the girls loudly proclaimed that yes, it would. Mulan bit her lip. Pocahontas took a trepidatious sip. There was a smattering of jokey applause. Seeming to decide that it didn't _taste_ evil, Pocahontas took another sip.

"You'll want to slow down…" said Mulan quietly.

"Makover time!" Cinderella chirped. "What do you have for her, Godmother?"

Pocahontas stood and followed Cinderella to the center of the floor.

"Oh, lovely, lovely. You're a rather hourglassy girl yourself, aren't you? Well, I do love the cut of your dress, we just want something with a little more pizzazz…"

"Wait," said Meg. "Leave her hair. I have an idea."

Fairy G complied, and focused on the dress. It remained the exact shape and fit, except instead of napped leather, it became wampum beading, gold with jagged black stripes running diagonally across, and beaded tassels in place of the fringe. Shoes to match, of course. Her jewelry was chunky and black.

"And you're mine," said Meg, dragging her off to the bathroom. "I bet the vintage princesses wouldn't be caught dead travelling without a full beauty salon. I mean, they're from 30s and 50s, they probably have crap we couldn't even dream of… Ha! I was right!" she crowed, holding up a crazy-looking shower cap attached to a hose, which could then be jammed onto the nozzle of a hairdryer. "But all we need are bobby pins. Lots and lots of bobby pins."

Pocahontas giggled. "That thing is hilarious," she said giddily, pointing to the shower cap on the hose.

"Yes, that's right, enjoy the bubbly," said Meg soothingly as she got to work.

"Hey, where's Nala?" said Jane suddenly.

"Oh…" Belle shook her head. "I tried to drag her along, but she refused. I think she felt a bit weird about not being able to participate in the getting-ready."

"Why couldn't she?" said Fairy G earnestly.

"She's kind of a lioness."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She's a four-legged large feline of the African grasslands."

"Oh my, you meant 'lioness' in the _literal_ sense?" Fairy G gasped. But she recovered quickly. "Well, I don't see how that means she couldn't participate. Everyone could use some gussying up."

"She's right," said Jane. "Let's go and get her. I feel terrible having all this fun without her."

Most of the girls were on the tipsy side now, just the perfect amount that such a search-and-rescue mission sounded like the best idea. Leaving Meg and Pocahontas to their hair project and Fairy G to the remainder of the champagne tower, they filed out to door to Belle's room, planning their mission like a military maneuver.

"Bibbity-bobbity-boo!"

Nala's coat was newly clean and fluffy, moreso than she remembered it ever being. "Wow," said Jane. "May I?"

"Be my guest."

"Ah-ha," said Jane involuntarily as she ran her hand across Nala's back.

Unlike Simba, Nala wasn't so resisting to the wardrobe selection: a gold chain around her neck, another that circled the top of her head and finished in a small jewel dangling between her eyes, and bracelets on all four legs. She did retreat somewhat from the proffered bowl of champagne.

"I really don't know…"

"Actually, Disney rules state that yes, lions can imbibe, at least for tonight," said Deminda, who left as quickly as she'd arrived.

"Oh."

Deminda nodded and disappeared. Nala sampled the sparkling elixir. "Oh, wow. This is great!"

"ISN'T IT?" cheered Pocahontas, waving her empty glass. Her hair was swooped up into a style seemingly ripped straight from a Grecian urn, decorated with two gold headbands. It looked great. She was trashed. She'd had one drink.

* * *

I love makeovers.


	22. The Boys Get Makeovers

I'm going to be honest, part of the reason why I'm updating so soon is because I really really had to respond to **Coraline Starr**'s review (girl got no account dammit) because it really turned me on:

_I do like the makeover idea! Perhaps someone skilled in the field of art, and knowledgeable in the field of fashion vocabulary (not me!) can attempt to draw the girls in their new outfits._

__This is fucking AMAZING because for a while, I've been like, "I wonder if there's anyone who could illustrate this, like if one of my readers was into art or something. Because, I've been meaning to say for a while, the idea for this whole fic sprang from none other than David Kawena's excellent depictions of the Disney Princes as underwear models. If you haven't seen them, GOOGLE THEM NOW GOD DAMNIT. They're amazing. So yeah, as I've been writing the story I'm seeing it unfolding as an animated story. So if anyone out there among my readership has any inkling for art, and if they're thus moved by my story, I would be off my rocker with you totally get a chapter. After all that, shit, you deserve it! And I promise it's not about makeovers. (I lied. It's all about makeovers.)

* * *

Meanwhile, the men were gathered much more tightly into Adam and Simba's room. It was really their best option, because at least Simba's bed could be stacked in the corner, or pillaged for extra seating if need were. It also made sense because their makeover gurus were special friends of Adam's.

"Bonjour," sang Lumière (humanified) as he burst through the door.

"Hello hello," sang Madame Garderobe (still in wardrobe form) as she inched very carefully through the door. "Master," they chorused, and bowed.

"My friends," said Adam warmly, handing Lumière a bottle of Stella Artois. They'd noticed he seemed much more comfortable around his servants. "I hope you've cooked up something good for us."

"Monsieur, ah would shame mahself eef eet were anyting less zan _parfait_," said Lumeière. "Shall we do zees _chronologiquement_? Monsieur Eric, do step forward."

"Ooh, I have something good for you," said Garderobe, opening one of her doors and letting Lumière select a hanger and a pair of shoes.

This process was repeated ten more times, and eventually the room was full of men in various states of undress. Lumière, on his second Stella, had worked himself into full-on flirt mode.

"Ah, Garderobe, Garderobe, you know, for you, eet matters not whezzer you are 'uman or wood, for your carving ees of de most sensual variety I 'ave ever seen."

"Uh-huh. Well, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll change back now that I'm empty."

"But as I 'ave said, you are quite ravishing in eizer form! You tink I lie? Madame, Lumière does not lie!"

Garderobe, suddenly human, smirked at him.

"So how do I look?" said Eric, running his hands over the unfamiliar lines of his clothes.

Lumière leapt to his feet. "_Merveilleuse, remarquable!_ Ah congratulate mahself!"

Garderobe cleared her throat.

"And of course Madame Garderobe, forgive me, _chérie_. But you must admeet, ah was right about ze bow-tie."

Eric's sea-foam green shirt and royal blue bow-tie brought out the beautiful blue of his eyes. His suit was black and modest, with a belt that matched his tie. From Lumière's selection of hair products he grabbed a can of mousse, and then pulled a fork from the folds of his discarded clothes and set about styling his hair. The wide-spread tines separated his hair into bedheady tendrils, which looked weirdly good. As a last touch, he donned the puka shell necklace he'd worn for the catwalk competition. He hadn't really clued into the fact that no-one could tell he'd made it himself and he totally looked like a wannabe surfer… but it didn't diminish his hotness.

Adam was easy to style, since Lumière knew Adam's look better than he did himself, probably. He'd forgone a jacket – Adam's back had remained hugely muscular after his transformation and the only jackets that could accommodate it made him look like a bodyguard – and instead picked a cranberry red shirt, a black tie, and a black pinstriped vest. His caramel hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail (Lumière had persuaded him against tying it with a poncy ribbon) and his shoes were pointy-toed and shiny. A big gold watch peaked out of his French cuff.

Gaston was not invited to the party (for obvious reasons).

Lumière had let himself go really edgy with Aladdin. A skinny red tie swung against a deep purple shirt, which contrasted with the fitted white blazer and black-and-white striped suspenders. His narrow dark-washed jeans were finished with a brass studded belt and he wore black suede pumas on his feet. A big Mafioso ring glinted on his right pinky finger. Garderobe patiently set about working out the tangles in Aladdin's thick crop of hair and used a bit of crème to bring out his natural Arabic waves.

Simba was off somewhere with Nala. A few of the guys (who were by now each at least two Stellas in) charged off to find him.

John Smith (Hercules had all but dragged him here and he guessed he was glad for the distraction, although he was still moping into his Stella quite a bit) had very nearly fallen victim to Lumière's research. "'Ave you ever 'eard ze name _Jordan Catalano_?" Lumière had asked before handing him his hanger. Smith hadn't. Lumière had brandished a picture of 90s-era Jared Leto. But for the hair colour, Smith had to admit the resemblance was uncanny, and Lumière had been very close to forcing him into a flannel shirt. But Garderobe put a stop to all that and what he ended up with was a slim-fitting three-piece grey suit with a black shirt, left open at the neck, no tie. Lumière handed him a brush and a hair elastic and he obligingly tied his hair back, leaving his roughly cut bangs to fall adorably into his eyes.

Lumiere had a great outfit picked out for Kocoum – black suit, powder blue shirt, silver tie – but Kocoum was nowhere to be found.

"But we must track 'im down!" said Lumière. "Which one of you ees 'is roomie?"

"That would be me," said Aladdin sheepishly.

"Go and get 'im!"

"Heyyy," said Aladdin shiftily. "Why not send John over there? You guys are sort of pals, right? Or Shang? How 'bout it, Shang?" He trailed off when he realized everyone was staring at him. "Uh…"

"Wait. Are you scared of Kocoum?" said Eric through a giant smile and a suppressed guffaw.

"No!"

"Oh come now, Al, there's no shame in admitting it," said Phoebus, slinging his free arm around his shoulders. "He's a scary dude."

"Guys, I'm _not_ scared of Kocoum."

"It's not funny," said Quasi sternly, and Phoebus and Eric looked a bit cowed. "Listen," he said softly to Aladdin, "I know how you feel."

Aladdin's eyes widened. "You mean, you're scared of him too?"

"No, but I can see why someone would be."

"Ha!" cried Phoebus. "I knew you were scared of Kocoum!"

Aladdin scowled. He felt tricked. "Well, what about you?" he said to Eric. "Jasmine told me your fight was more like a cardio workout!"

Eric stopped smiling.

"Ok, ok," said Hercules. "I'll go get him. Someone pass me a beer, I'll bring it along as a peace offering."

"Ooh, you really don't want to do that," said Quasi. "Kocoum has a thing about alcohol."

"Listen, lads, I think it's time for me to interject," said John Smith authoritatively (and a bit tipsily). "Lumière, I'm sure that's a very fine outfit. Here's the thing. Our friend Kocoum tolerates us Europeans here because he understands that we individually are not out to destroy everything he's ever known. However. I do think he'll draw the line at wearing our – sorry, '_our_' – fashions."

That stumped everyone. Smith glanced around, looking for a glimmer of understanding, but all he saw was confusion. "Just trust me, all right?"

"Hm," said Lumière. "But per'aps you are wrong! Come, Aladdin, let us bring a smile to his serious face!" He grabbed a Stella and dragged Aladdin kicking and screaming out the door.

John Smith looked at Adam questioningly. "He's very… enthusiastic," stammered Adam.

A few minutes later, Lumière returned, pouting, hair drenched with beer. "Ah weel freely admit, ah should 'ave leestened. Forgeeve me, Monsieur Smith." Aladdin was pale and shaky. He yelped when he turned and found that Kocoum had slipped in right behind him.

"I'm not an unreasonable man," said Kocoum.

"Not at all. Forgive us," said Adam. "John _did_ warn us. Care for something from the minibar?"

Kocoum sighed. "Is there Coke?"

Adam tossed him a bottle. Kocoum grabbed a cushion and made himself at home. And they really were glad to have him.

Quasi was a tough one to style – first of all, Lumière had had to get his especially tailored, and second, he'd obsessed for hours over which combination of menswear would hang best over the hunch. A suit would provide coverage, but the lapels would dangle unflatteringly. A vest wouldn't have the dangling problem, but most vest backs were designed to fit between shoulder blades. In the end, Lumière was quite proud of what had come up with. The forest green shirt flattered Quasi's red hair. The vest was black, and the back was cut to the width of his shoulders, which actually minimized the apparent size of the hump. The vest was also made of a more elastic material, so it never bunched or puckered unbecomingly like most of Quasi's clothes. The tie was also black. Then, over _that_, Lumière had made the unusual choice to add a cummerbund, forest green silk to match the shirt, which accentuated Quasi's muscular torso and narrow hips. Black pants, black shoes. Garderobe fixed his tragic hackjob of a haircut and moussed it up to it wasn't so flat and ill-looking.

Upon Phoebus had been bestowed the title of He Who Can Pull Off A Pink Shirt. His suit was a muted grayish-teal and slim-fitting, and his tie, belt, and shoes were all white. "Eh, it's not terrible," he said to his reflection in the mirror as he tied his Gypsy cuff around his wrist. Of course it wasn't terrible. It was freaking hot.

Hercules was another who couldn't really pull off a jacket without looking like a linebacker at a press conference, and Lumière was too taken with his classic aesthetic to go that modern anyway. Instead, Hercules was given a white shirt (which Lumière insisted he leave unbuttoned to mid-chest), which tucked into black pants that set his muscular rear end at an excellent advantage. Black suspenders and a black cummerbund had him looking like the cover of a Harlequin romance novel. His Zeus medallion hung on a chain around his neck. His shoes, like Adam's, were black and pointy. Garderobe used a bit of pomade to sculpt his curls.

Shang was probably the broadest of the men, but for some reason (probably a slightly racial reason) he looked less meat-heady in a suit. Lumière had picked out a vintagey double-breasted charcoal with subtle pinstripes, a cream-coloured (also pinstriped) shirt, and a dark green tie to match the dark green ribbon holding up his hair.

And then there was Tarzan. Lumière had amused himself with swatches of zany leopard- and zebra-print fabric, but finally he had sobered up enough to realize that because of Tarzan's uniquely informal personality, he could pull off more formality of attire than anyone else. With that in mind, Lumière proudly handed him a tuxedo.

"Eet ees a fairly complicated process to dress oneself in such a costume; allow me to asseest you."

"No need," said Tarzan. "Mr. Porter has taught Tarzan all about tuxedos." And yet, once the tux was on, Tarzan resumed his crouch on top of the desk, completely at ease. Garderobe used some pomade to shine up his dreadlocks and clasped a few of the foremost locks in a polished clip at the back of his head.

At that point, Phoebus and Hercules returned with Simba, each clutching a handful of mane as though he would make a break for it. The rest of the men cheered when he walked in. Simba rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself.

"Seriously, I don't know what kind of makeover exactly you think you're going to give me. And I don't think I can drink beer."

"Surely lions can enjoy a drink or two," said Hercules, already pouring a bowl for Simba.

"I don't think so…"

"It's all good, go right ahead," said Deminda breathlessly, having just booked it from the suite.

"See?"

"Ok, ok, fine." He bent low and lapped at the bowl.

"And now for ze attire," said Lumière, holding up a hanger. "No," said Simba flatly. But Lumière pouted until he agreed to try it on.

"I look like a LOLcat," he announced glumly as he appraised his reflection.

He wasn't wrong. Lumière had wrestled him into a bow tie and mock collar (which could have made a very nice belt for an obese man) and two mock French cuffs on his forelegs.

"Simba looks civilized," Tarzan offered. Smith grimaced a bit at the word "civilized".

"Well, how about the hair?" Garderobe prompted, still clutching the comb.

"The hair I like," said Simba. "I… Acutally, I look like my dad." He smiled to himself. He seemed to get a little misty-eyed too, but few noticed that.

"So that's everyone but Kocoum, and that prick Gaston," said Phoebus.

"Ha! That guy!" laughed Eric. "Hey Lumière, what did you have in mind for him, anyway?"

Garderobe scoffed. Lumière spat disgustedly. "'Im? Ah would razzer stab mahself in ze eye wit a sewing needle than clothe zat…" Very subtly, Adam shook his head. Lumière shut up and raised his hands in an "I'm Done" gesture.

"Speaking of Gaston," said Phoebus, throwing a slightly drunken arm around John Smith's shoulder, "I really can't emphasize enough: That. Was. Awesome."

John Smith raised his sixth Stella bottle. He was slightly drunk himself (and then some). "And I owe it all to you, Adam, old chap!" Adam smiled and toasted Smith's outstretched bottle. "You have a sixth sense, I'll give you that!"

"No… just…" Adam sighed with resignation. "Prior experience?"

"Damn right!" said Simba. "Adam beat the crap outta the guy last night! You should have seen it!"

"With your help," Adam added modestly as the others cheered.

"Still!"

"And what I meant was, experience prior to that. He's... well, I guess there's no point keeping it a secret. He's my antagonist."

The men gasped, especially Simba, for whom it all finally made sense. And then it really didn't. Phoebus felt the same.

"Wait. Back on the first day he told me that his girl... or, his 'girl'," he corrected, doing quote bunny ears, "was 'pretending' to be in love with 'some ass'. Are _you_ the ass!"

The men oo-ed. Adam shrugged. "I suppose."

"Well, you must have resolved at some point. Otherwise, why aren't you guys constantly at fisticuffs?"

"I don't know," said Adam defensively. "Why aren't _you_ two constantly at fisticuffs?" Smith and Kocoum raised their eyebrows. Adam looked immediately ashamed. "Sorry. But there's a good reason why we're not."

"You made peace with each other?" said Quasi hopefully. "Not likely," said Phoebus.

"Never," said Adam with a growling edge to his voice. "The only reason is that... he doesn't know me."

"You never met?"

"Sort of. Somewhat... we met when he tried to kill me." The men cringed. "But he died in the attempt, and then... I was saved... by magic." He waited for someone to laugh at him, but no-one did. They were all good and familiar with deus-ex-machinas. "The enchantment left me with my original healthy human form, which didn't include a ruptured kidney."

"Whaddyou mean your human form?" said Phoebus warily. Lumière and Garderobe inched out of the room. Suddenly Hercules leapt to his feet.

"Yeah! I meant to ask you about that! What the hell, man?"

"Whoa," said Phoebus.

"I break through my screen and all I see is this huge animal thing sprinting toward me! I thought I was fighting _you_! What was _that_ all about? I mean, don't get me wrong, it was FUCKING AWESOME, but seriously, what?"

"So you started off as a non-human? Hybrid? Thing?" stammered Eric. "Like... what?"

"A..." Adam paused and thought. "I don't really know what I was. I really just... called myself... a beast. _The_ Beast."

Phoebus squinted. "Beast...iality?"

"NO! Nothing like that, my _god_. Started off human. Pissed off an enchantress. It happens, all right?"

"Oh, yeah, all the time." Phoebus wiped his brow.

"Oh my god, it all makes sense now!" cried Simba.

"What does?" asked Adam dully.

"Oh..." Simba thought "That's why you were so obsessed with me" sounded a little harsh, so he shrugged and said, "That's why... you're so knowledgeable... about quadropedality."

"Regrettably knowledgeable. Oh, no offense meant, but you understand."

"Sure."

"I understand," said Tarzan. "With gorilla family, I wanted to be a gorilla."

"Exactly! Exactly. I daresay I could have gotten along just fine if I were born to a herd of... whatever I was."

"And what _were _you?" said Quasi gently.

Adam thought for a bit. "I had horns..." he raised his hands to demonstrate. Tarzan leapt to his feet.

"One minute," he promised, and bounded off, returning with Jane, who seemed a little bewildered, clutching a sketchpad and charcoal.

"Dear, what exactly is going on?"

"Adam will describe animal. Jane draws the animal!" said Tarzan excitedly.

"What animal?" Tarzan shrugged. "Oh! Like charades!" She pronounced it "sha-rahds". "What fun! Go ahead."

"Horns," repeated Adam.

"What kind of horns?"

"Just... horns."

"But small, like a cow, or big like a bulls? Or curved like a buffalo?"

"I think... buffalo."

"All right."

"Really heavy brow," said Adam as he felt his own brow.

"Hominid? Like a gorilla?"

"Exactly. Flattish nose, heart shaped."

"Like a cat?"

"Bigger. And brown. Pointy teeth, especially the canines."

"Hm. That's basically any carnivore in the... Oh, Simba, darling, would you mind smiling?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh, terribly sorry, but we need a dentition reference. Could you...?"

"Oh, fine, fine." Simba grinned unenthusiastically. The men laughed. Adam nodded.

"Right, that, exactly that."

"No shit," Simba breathed.

"But the bottom canines stayed out. Like an underbite."

"Or tusks, maybe. You know how wild boars' tusks jut out lah iss?" She opened her mouth and used her fingers to demonstrate.

"Tusks, sure. And then a goatee thingy on the chin. Like a goat."

"Marvelous, marvelous! A beautiful beast!"

"First time I've heard _that_."

"All right, now the body.

"Oh, a huge body. No neck, a hump with a short mane on it, long enough to pull the end into a pigtail."

"How very curious!"

"Really thick arms, huge hands. Like big human hands but with claws instead of nails."

"Any pads on the hands?"

"One, here," he said, indicated a stripe on his own palm. "A big ribcage, must have been four feet from sternum to back, tapered to a smallish pelvis, and then the hind legs."

"Humanoid like the arms?"

"Oh, not at all. Up on tiptoe. Like a dog. And then..." Adam shuddered. "The _tail_."

"How lovely!"

"A big bushy tail."

Jane worked fast, with wide eyes and red cheeks. "All right, I think I'm finished. How did I do?"

"Wait! ...before you show it, add some trousers."

"Trousers! Oh, how funny!" Jane did as requested and turned the sketchbook around. "Well?"

Adam's eyes immediately welled up. "You did... perfectly."

The men stared at the sketch in awe. "That... was _you_?" said Shang. He thought of his first impression of Adam and shifted uncomfortably.

"You!" squeaked Jane. "I thought it looked familiar!"

Adam gave her an extremely condensed version of the tale. Jane's eyes got so wide they seemed in danger of falling out of her head. When he was done, he pointed to her sketchbook. "Do you think I could keep that sketch?"

She closed her gaping jaw. "Oh my goodness, please! Here, here you go, and do enjoy! Oh my, well, I must get back to the girls, but, Mr. Bête, best of luck with everything, I say!"

Adam folded the sketch carefully and slid it into his breast-pocket. "In short, that is why Gaston has no idea who I am, and why I was immensely disappointed to find myself his physical inferior."

He reddened. He was clearly opening up much further than he'd wanted to. He looked embarrassed, and it was getting awkward. For his own part, Simba felt terrible. This whole time he'd been patronizing the kid, calling him nasty names in his head. _Simply pathetic_, that's what he'd thought. And making him feel worse by intervening whenever he had a chance to fight Gaston. He leaned forward and chose his words very carefully.

"Hey. Hey, man. Listen. First of all, you remember how you beat the crap out of the guy last night? Yeah. Not exactly inferior."

Phoebus started to laugh. "Are you seriously concerned about that?"

"Yeah," said Hercules. "Musculature aside, that guy _sucks_."

"Piece of shit."

"Fuck that guy."

"Fuck him!"

"Seriously, dude, if you still want to beat the crap out of him, you've got first dibs. But if you could, leave a bit for us," said Aladdin, casting a hand vaguely around the room.

"Waitwaitwait, mates, I've got it!" John Smith held out his hands to shut them up. He paused for anticipation and started to sing. "Noooooo oooooone..."

They all joined in. Somehow they knew the words.

**"No one sucks like Gaston!**

**Really sucks like Gaston!**

**There's no one in this world that can suck like Gaston!**

**Did you know that he's quite good at sucking,**

**There's none that can suck like he does?**

**When it comes to the subject of sucking,**

**Well he is the suckiest there ever was!**

**Nooooo ooooone... fights like the Beast,**

**Plays piano like Beast,**

**No one talks about his monster form like the Beast!**

**Trust us, you'd better hope that you're OOON his good side,**

**So watch your back, Gastooooon!"**

* * *

Oh fuck me, that was fun. Playing dress-up with the guys was an absolute blast. I've often said that the one thing I begrudge of men is the ability to tie-shop. I've also often said that I hate that guys never seem to want to dress like men of different eras... I think it says a lot about my childhood influences when I'm turned on by a guy with a "Caesar haircut" or a "Dread Pirate Roberts mustache".

Yeah, seriously, if any of you draw, and if you think you could make anything out of any of my suggestions (I actually pondered asking if anyone could depict the screens used in the fighting arena, with the princes' images painted on them), I would be very excited to see what you came up with.

I sound bonkers.

-Curly


	23. Good Night, Bad Night part I

MAD CRAZY UPDATE! So after **Coraline Starr**'s wicked sweet suggestion and my call-out, another fantastic reviewer by the name of **Lahiwe**, _who is a **fashion**** designer**_, offered to actually do it! Merciful goodness, I'm getting verklempt! WE'RE ALL VERKLEMPT!

Such was my glee that I decided to bestow upon you all the gift of plot. Enjoy, my loves!

* * *

While the rest of the girls had gone off to track down Nala, Belle knocked tentatively on John Rolfe's door.

"Go away."

"Mr. Rolfe, my name is Belle Bête. I'm a friend of your wife's."

Rolfe opened the door and peered at her. He looked quite haggard. His long brown hair was undone and matted. "What do you want?"

"I'm here to help. May I come in?"

Rolfe rolled his eyes and stood aside. Belle entered hesitantly. "Mr. Rolfe, I understand you're going through something really hard. I won't say I know how you feel, but I do have an idea as to the sort of… complications that come with being out of the confines of one's movie, and I had to ask… do you consider yourself completely informed?"

"Well enough. She likes the blond boys who can talk to her through magic wind language." He stopped himself and covered his face with his hand. Belle was agape. "I'm sorry. I sound so terribly spiteful."

"I know you're in pain," said Belle calmly. "And what's worse is, this was bound to happen. Disney left a lot of loose ends." Belle sat in the armchair. Rolfe plunked himself on the bed. "I'm no relationship expert – well, among the Disney characters I am, simply because that was the entire point of my movie – but I think I know that you need to understand the cause before you can understand the effect. Mr. Rolfe… have you ever seen your wife's movie?"

Rolfe laughed mirthlessly. "Of course not. Every time I suggested I watch it, she always talked me out of it. 'Why would you want to see that? It's in the past. I'm with you now. I've told you everything anyway.' I should have known…"

"I think she was being genuine. But you should see it. Here…" She turned on the TV and on the screen was the beautiful _Pocahontas_ poster, right next to the word "Play". "I fixed it with Deminda. You can pause, take breaks, whatever you need, but you must get through it. Pocahontas is out with us tonight. She's distraught, but we're taking care of her. Before you see her again, you must watch this movie." She pressed the remote into his hands. "Press 'Enter' when you're ready. Good evening, Mr. Rolfe."

When the door closed behind her, Rolfe grabbed a pad of Evafta stationary and a pen. Across the top, he scrawled, _Things I should do to keep Pocahontas interested in me._ It was a very sarcastic, spiteful sentiment, and he hated himself. Then, he took a deep breath and pressed "Enter".

Ninety minutes later, he was clutching the pen and paper and sobbing hysterically. "Noooohohohoho… this can't be the eeeeehehehend… they loooooohohove each other… WHY GOD WHY DON'T THEY END UP TOGETHEEEEEEHEHER?" He recognized the melody of the sweeping orchestral finale and sang along (more like _wailed_ along) through his tears: "YOU CAN PAINT WITH ALL THE COOOOOLOURS OOOHOHOHOHOF! THEEEHEHEHE! WIIIIIIIIIIIIHIHIHIHIIIIOH GOD WHYYYYYY?"

* * *

The ballroom had been transformed into a salsa paradise. The red-toned lighting made everyone look horny and slightly demonic. Palm trees graced the corners. Festive flags and streamers draped over every conceivable inch of wall and ceiling, except for the giant chandelier, of course. The dance floor was expansive and foot-level lighting cast giant shadows of the writhing dancers over the space. Very Peter Pan. Very Dr. Facilier. Red vinyl sofas curved around the tables, wide and sturdy to accommodate the inevitable table-dancing. The bar was big and shiny and well-staffed, blender constantly whirring. On stage, a group of Gypsy musicians warmed up with some lower-key numbers. Yes, the men were there, and yes, they were the guests of honour, but everyone knew the party wouldn't _really_ start until the ladies arrived.

Right now, Phoebus was hanging near the stage with John Smith, nursing drinks while nodding their heads to the music. Quasi, Aladdin, and Hercules were doing shots at the bar. Adam, Eric, and Simba had grabbed a table and were enjoying drinks while engrossed in some great discussion. Shang and Tarzan were lurking by a palm tree, with Tarzan doing most of the talking and Shang listening, rapt. Kocoum was chatting with Deminda, who was peering salaciously over the top of her clipboard. (She was a few drinks deep herself.) She'd dressed up in a red halter dress and black stilettos, but her hair was hastily pinned off her face as usual. The rest of the club was filled with two-dee extras and three-dee VIPs; the crowd density was perfect.

At some point, Smith and Phoebus needed refills, and, noticing a waiter at Adam, Eric and Simba's table, sauntered over to join them. They ordered – cognac for Phoebus, whisky for Smith, straight, obviously – and then Phoebus said, "So, what are we talking about? Quadrupeds? Mythical humanoids?"

"Not at all, actually," said Adam, glancing shiftily at Simba and Eric.

"Ok…"

Eric took a deep breath. "Maybe you can help us," he said. "You know Quasi best out of any of us."

"Oh!" Phoebus glanced up at Quasi, who was leaning casually against the bar and laughing at some joke of Aladdin's. "Yes, I do; what is it you wanted to know?"

A glance passed between the three once more. Phoebus frowned. "Well," said Eric, "to be perfectly frank, the three of us were discussing… how to get Quasi…"

"…to meet a girl," Simba finished, smacking a giant paw into Eric's chest. Eric went "Oof!" and leaned heavily against the table while he tried to regain his breath. Adam and Simba grinned sheepishly. Phoebus glanced at John Smith, who shrugged.

"Ok," said Phoebus. "I'll play along. I've been trying to get Quasi to meet a girl for ages; maybe tonight is a good opportunity."

"What kind of girl did you have in mind?" said Smith.

"Well, that's where we need your help," said Adam.

"I see," said Phoebus. "Well, someone kind and sweet, but that's a given. Someone short, for obvious reasons." The other four looked shocked; Phoebus laughed at the looks on their faces. "Hey, it's no insult to say a short guy is short." They shrugged. "What else, what else… someone a little bit reserved, though _certainly_ not as shy as Quasi. That would be a disaster."

"Agreed," they chorused.

"How about looks?" said Eric, having recovered from Simba's well-intentioned gesture.

"_What_ do you mean?" Whoops. Awkward. Eric backpedalled hastily.

"I mean _her_ looks," he stammered. "Does Quasi have a type?"

"Oh. Well, no, I can't recall him saying…"

"But if you had to describe the girl he would be attracted to… ok. How about this. Which of the ladies do you think he would pursue if he could?"

Phoebus arched a golden eyebrow. "Yeah, I'm not going to play that game. Anyway, he discovered women very recently; I don't think he even has a concept of 'preference'. Just… be easy on him, eh?" Then he looked straight at Eric and said, "Quasi isn't really the type of guy you can 'get laid'."

Eric looked mortified. "I wasn't… I…"

"Uh-huh." Phoebus smirked.

Then suddenly, the doors opened, revealing thirteen shapely silhouettes. The men leapt to their feet and stood before them on the dance floor. The ladies stepped in and the doors shut behind them, and finally everyone could get a good look at their makeovers. The men acted smitten, blowing kisses and clutching their hearts. The ladies posed arm-in-arm. It was like a sexy standoff.

Then, the Gypsy band kicked it into high gear. Obviously, both the men and ladies had assembled randomly, so they weren't necessarily standing opposite their significant others; but some cruel twist of fate had landed Pocahontas directly in front of John Smith. While the ladies moved to claim their men, Smith and Pocahontas just stared at each other. Then Smith dropped his gaze and turned away. Pocahontas' face crumpled.

And Quasi edged in to take her hand. "May I have this dance?" he said sweetly. Pocahontas collected herself and smiled. Quasi shot a stern look back at John Smith. Smith turned and slouched off to the bar, but found his way blocked by a saucy-looking Cinderella.

"Come on. Buck up," she said, grabbing his hands and guiding them to the small of her back. "You won't make this any easier on each other until you learn to put up a façade." She pressed her hands into his shoulders and began to guide him in a basic step-forward, step-back salsa beat. He sighed and copied her movements, trying to enjoy himself.

"You look amazing," said Simba, drinking in the sight of Nala through wide eyes.

"You look like a LOLcat," she replied.

Everyone but Smith seemed to be having a great time. Quasi was doing his level best to cheer up Pocahontas, swinging her around the dance floor as though they were children, and Pocahontas was laughing. Phoebus was worshipping his hot wife, who was completely in her element right now; she swayed her hips against his hands and played her hands over his face and neck. Mulan and Shang weren't really the dancing types per se, but they were very much enjoying their attempt. Aurora had grabbed Kocoum just as Cinderella had Phoebus, and Kocoum seemed to be acquitting himself surprisingly well on the dance floor; his sobering glare was smouldering under these lights. Hercules was just sort of clumsily holding Meg and following her around, grinning goofily at her 50s-esque hotness. Adam and Belle, ballroom champions, were flat-out tangoing. Tarzan had exactly one dance in his repertoire – a leaping, polka-esque thing with no regard for tempo – and he and Jane tore about the room, other revelers leaping out of their way. Simba and Nala were romping around; they were smart enough to realize that if they tried to dance, the resulting YouTube video would end up in the Recommended list next to the Keyboard Cat. Aladdin and Jasmine bopped about like teenagers.

When the song ended, Deminda hopped up on stage, sexy librarian glasses askew, grabbed a mic, and shouted, "Give it up for our house band this evening, Vlad and the Wanderers!" Esmeralda, flushed with excitement, cheered and waved. The Wanderers struck up another number, slightly slower, and Deminda took Kocoum's proffered hand and hopped off the stage.

Smith made a beeline to the bar and stared resolutely at the rows of liquors, trying not to be noticed. Of course, Quasi joined him.

"You didn't have to do that," said Smith glumly.

"She looked like she'd been hit with an tomato," said Quasi.

"Well, thanks." He sighed. "I hate doing this to her."

Quasi patted him on the arm. "Look. She's trying to enjoy herself." He motioned to where Pocahontas was cradling a cosmo in her hand (drink two) and dancing sexily with Meg. "You should do the same."

"What do you suggest, mate?"

Quasi grinned. "I brought backgammon!" He was not kidding.

Just then, Adam and Eric appeared at his shoulders. Simba snatched the backgammon case out of his hand and tossed it aside. "We've got bigger plans for you," said Eric, and they dragged him off.

Smith watched them go, and then looked at the discarded backgammon case and shrugged. "Why not."

"Isn't she perfect?" sighed Eric.

The girl in question was seated alone on one of the red sofas, watching the dancing. She was smiling. Her legs were crossed, arms loosely folded around her middle. So she was shy, but not awkward. Her mid-length hair was gathered in a ponytail by her right ear that curled over her shoulder. It was too far away to tell what her earrings looked like, but they were small, probably chosen more for sentiment than statement. A modest ring glinted off the middle finger of her right hand. Her outfit was a little less flashy than most in the room, but not unfashionable: a purple empire-waisted jersey dress with cap sleeves and a skirt just shy of knee length, complemented with silver ballet flats. The kicker, though, was the thin gold chain around her neck that disappeared beneath the collar of the dress: Adam had been willing to bet a lot of money that there was a cross on that chain.

"She's beautiful," said Quasi. "Who is she?"

"No idea," said Simba.

"That's for you to find out," said Eric.

"What do you mean?"

"We're setting you up, my man," said Adam brightly. "We cased out the entire joint for the perfect girl for you, and honestly, we think that's her."

Then they all crowded around to gauge his reaction. But they couldn't read his expression at all.

"Tell us what you're thinking, buddy," said Eric.

Quasi shrugged in a very French way. "It's not that easy for me," he said bluntly.

"Don't think too hard on it," said Eric, completely missing the point. "Just go up to her and say…"

Quasi sighed, stared at the ceiling, and intoned the following very rapidly, as though reciting a prayer: "People don't react normally when approached by those with congenital deformities."

It was awkward. Eric, Adam, and Simba exchanged glances, and then Adam leaned forward and politely asked, "Pardon me?"

"You heard me. This isn't a good idea," said Quasi, and he turned to walk away, but Adam grabbed him by the unhunched shoulder and dragged him back.

"First of all," he said sternly, "Belle fell in love with me when I was a _monster_. I mean 'monster' in the literal sense, not in whatever sense that your horrible guardian used it. So if _I_, who is nowhere near as kind or strong a person as _you_, can do _that_, you certainly can too, and then some.

"And SECOND," he continued before Quasi could interject, "that girl knows who you are. Everyone here does. Listen, I won't beat around the bush, because you didn't: yes, you are a surprise to behold. And I know what that's like, Belle almost had a seizure when she first saw me. But there won't be any surprise! She's seen you before! And not only that, I'm willing to bet she's seen your movie and probably the entire competition, THUS, she knows your character too! So, sirrah, go forth and CHAT HER UP!" Quasi opened his mouth; Adam cut him off: "DO IT!"

Haltingly, and with many confused looks back over his shoulder, Quasi headed toward the girl's table. Adam gave him a swift kick in the backside to get him going.

"Man," said Eric, holding out his fist, which Adam bumped with gusto.

"That actually went much smoother than I'd envisioned," said Simba.

"Oh my god," Phoebus muttered under his breath, and halted his and Esmeralda's salsa-ing.

"What?"

He gestured to the girl's table, where Quasi seemed to be making a bashful introduction. "They actually pulled it off."

Esmeralda's eyes widened. "Are some of the boys trying to get him laid?"

"They wouldn't admit it to me, but yeah, Adam and Eric and Simba."

"Pft. What do they think themselves, a bunch of Casanovas?"

The three "Casanovas" were dancing with excitement, doing something that resembled the Twist.

"But look… I think they might actually found a good match for him."

At that moment, Deminda appeared from out of nowhere. "Ohhhh Myyyy God, is Quasi hitting on my baby sister?" she squealed, slinging her arms around the couple's shoulders.

"Sort of?" said Phoebus. "Wait, how old is she?"

"23."

"Ah. That's fine, then."

"Are _you_ fine with it?" said Esmeralda.

"Oh, man, couldn't be happier," she slurred. "I've always wanted to see what a two-dee/three-dee babychild looked like…" Then suddenly the music seemed to profoundly affect her, and she closed her eyes and swung her hips around. "Man, why haven't they done a LATINA princess? How AWESOME would that be? Hey! Mr. Ross!" shouted Deminda, ready to sprint towards the newly-arrived President of Disney Studios, but Esmeralda grabbed her wrist.

"Save your pitch for when you're sober, hon," she counseled.

"Right," said Deminda knowingly, and Esmeralda released her, laughing. "Ugh, you're _so pretty_," she chirped, fluffing Esmeralda's hair, and the two women danced together for a few beats before Deminda went "Whoa! You know what would be GREAT? I mean for art AND marketing? A LATINA princess! Hey! Mr. Menken!" And before Esmeralda could grab her, Deminda was off like a shot towards Alan Menken, who was currently chatting with none other than Rich Ross.

"Well, honey, you tried," said Phoebus, patting her shoulder consolingly. Esmeralda cringed.

At that moment, the doors opened again, and in walked the judges. Well, in _flew_ Hermes, and Grandmother Willow had understandably passed on her invite. Clopin started dancing almost immediately, which was problematic since he was the first one through the door and he caused a bit of a traffic jam.

"CLOPIN!" called Esmeralda. He whirled to face her and pointed at her with intensity. Then they made a lot of "You. Me. **Dance** **floor**" gestures and met up dead center. Clopin grabbed her hand and spun her about a hundred times, sending her silk skirt rippling around her like a Frisbee.

Phoebus wandered over to the edge of the dance floor where Hercules, Meg, and Aladdin were chatting (Jasmine was having a teenaged girl dance party with Ariel at the other end of the floor). "Hey," said Aladdin. "Where's Esm… oh. _Wow._"

"Wow," chorused Meg and Hercules as Clopin flipped Esmeralda easily over his head without missing a beat.

Phoebus grinned with pride.

"Hey, what's everybody stari… Wow," said Mulan, who'd been passing by while dragging Shang back from the bar. "Ha. Aren't you worried? About…" She pointed to the pair, who were now dancing pelvis-to-pelvis, backs curving away from each other. Esmeralda's arms were undulating around them. Clopin's hands were planted firmly on her shapely tush.

Phoebus tried to answer seriously and could barely keep a straight face. "No… I'm not worried about… my wife… cheating on me… with _Clopin_." Mulan looked a bit confused. Phoebus nodded at Hercules. "You know what I'm talking about, Greek Boy."

Meg tittered. Hercules scowled at her. "Sorry," she said, and tittered some more. "Sorry."

* * *

I think the reason my focus has drifted from the competition and more into this sort of fractured multi-plot loosey-goosey sort of deal is that somewhere along the way, I realized that this was the perfect format to release all these little Disney plotbunnies running around inside of me that were never good enough for their own fic, but could serve me a few good scenes or one-liners. Although looking back, I wonder if I should have axed the John Smith/Pocahontas subplot into a fic of its own, or a companion fic or something, for the sake of the story's integrity... maybe I'll explore that later.

Anyway, someday soon we're all gonna see some effin' RAD illustrations, courtesy of **Lahiwe! **Yayyyy!

-Curly


	24. Good Night, Bad Night part II

"Um, pardon me," said Quasi, standing opposite the table from his "target". It took a while for her to realize that someone had spoken to her. When she noticed Quasi standing there, she _did _look surprised, but it was more of a star-struck sort of surprise. She smiled. "Oh! Hello!" She was very cute, with apple cheeks, twinkling eyes, and big teeth (in a good way).

"Sorry to bother you…"

"You didn't."

"My name is…"

"Quasimodo?"

"Just Quasi."

Her smile disappeared. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

Quasi felt bad; he smiled. "No worries." She returned his smile. They stood there smiling at each other for a bit. Then she remembered her manners.

"Oh, right. I'm Julea."

"Hi, Julea. Nice to meet you." There was a pause, and then they shook hands.

"So…"

"I just came over to see…" He looked back at his Casanovas, who gave him the thumbs up. _"Dance,_" Adam mouthed, while pantomiming a waltz. Quasi steeled his will. "I just came over to ask if it would be all right if I asked you to… dance."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh! Ok." She rose, but Quasi didn't make a move. Instead, he steeled his will once more:

"Would it be all right if I asked you to… dance?"

"Sure," she said, enthusiastically, but Quasi wasn't finished. He took a deep breath:

"Would you like to… dance?"

She giggled. "Yes, I would."

"With me?" he clarified.

She giggled again and held out her hand. He took it. They walked to the edge of the dance floor, joined their free hands, and began to sway on the spot. She was wonderfully short; he only had to look up a few inches to meet her eyes. The whole thing was a big production of grinning and blushing and looking away bashfully. The Casanovas filled their vacated booth and watched, sighing with pride.

* * *

John Smith had set up the Backgammon board at a table in the corner. He'd entertained the idea of looking for an opponent, but even Quasi was off with a bird now, so he guessed his fiercest enemy was himself. He made a move and was just about to spin the board when a hand appeared and halted its rotation. He followed the arm up to the face of a young three-dee woman who was staring at him quite lustfully, dark red lips slightly parted.

"Need a partner?" she purred, sitting opposite him.

"Um, all right."

She rolled the dice and made her move. "John Smith," she said, almost to herself.

He nodded. "And… you are?"

"Can't you guess?" she asked coyly, leaning forward and shaking her brown curlz over the board. "I'm your Author, blue-eyes. Your move."

"Oh," he said evenly as he rolled the dice. "Wait, you're telling me you Pennamed yourself after your _hair type_?"

She pouted. "I was thirteen."

"Fair enough. Your move."

"Indeed," she said, scooping up the dice. "Well, Mr. Smith, I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but you seem to be without escort for the evening."

"Oh, you noticed." He paused. "Wait… wasn't it _you_ who…"

"My move," she interrupted, moving her piece.

"But if you're the _author_…"

"YOUR MOVE." She composed herself. "So. What I was saying was… hows about we… stay close to each other tonight?" She peered down at the board.

"Oh."

"I'm just saying, I've already sketched out our chapter, and I can let you in on a little something…" She leaned forward, placed her hand lightly over his, and whispered: "_It's really good_."

"Er, right. Well…" He dropped the dice into her cup one by one. "While I appreciate the offer, I must regretfully turn it down."

She didn't look that discouraged. "Listen. I hear you. You're a Disney hero. Gallivanting off with a girl that_ isn't_ your soulmate, well, it doesn't come naturally to you. But think of me more as… a rock. A listening ear. A good… Backgammon partner." She gave a sultry grin and placed her piece assertively.

At this point, John Smith looked at the board, wrinkled his nose, and asked, "What are you doing?"

"I'm doing a sexy Backgammon scene." He didn't reply. "It's like… a narrative device? The game of Backgammon as a metaphor for the Game of Love?"

"No, I mean, in the game, what are you doing? That move?"

"Oh." She paused awkwardly. "I… don't know how to play Backgammon."

He stared. "I see."

She huffed defensively, then shook her head as if to clear it and smiled. "So? How about it? Listen, I'll admit, I've had a crush on you for a while now." She sang softly: "_All of my life, I have searched for a man like this one_…" She stroked his arm. "_A wild and more challenging chica you couldn't design…_"

But he was so rigid that eventually she removed her hand. "Fine. But I'm writing the chapter anyway." And she was gone.

Smith, watching the spot where she'd been standing, had a direct eye line to where Pocahontas was dancing closely with Jack Sparrow. The rogue was getting very handsy. It was a sickening sight. As he watched, Sparrow broke away and guided her toward the bar with his hand on the small of her back, presumably for drink three. Smith gripped the edge of the table and snorted like a raging bull.

* * *

"That was really fun," said Julea as she and Quasi took a seat. The three Casanovas popped up from behind the couch to listen in.

"It was!" said Quasi enthusiastically. "Usually I'm not much of a dancer."

"But I saw you dancing earlier with Pocahontas," said Julea. The Casanovas grimaced.

"Yes. I thought a dance would cheer her up, and I think it did!"

"I'm sure it did," said Julea. Well, Pocahontas was currently whispering something saucy in Jack Sparrow's ear while sipping a Piña Colada (drink three), so either it had cheered her up, or she was wasted. (Both?) "It was such a sweet thing to do, Quasi."

The Casanovas relaxed.

"So tell me something else about you," said Quasi. "What sort of thing do you do for fun?"

Julea smiled and blushed. "You'll think it's silly."

"No. I won't. I promise." Without even realizing the intimacy of the gesture, Quasi took her hand in both of his own. "Tell me?"

"Well…" she sighed very prettily. "I love… people. I'm a shy person, but I love to watch people just going about their lives. And sometimes… I paint them." _Oh jesus, she's fucking perfect,_ thought the Casanovas. Quasi gasped.

"That's not silly at all! I do the same thing, except I…"

"…Carve. I know," she said shyly. "I wish I could carve."

"I wish I could paint," he retorted, and they laughed. "So, what else?"

She grinned conspiratorially. "There's one other thing I really like to do," she said, very softly, so Quasi had to lean in to hear.

"What's that?"

"Sing."

"Ooh, she's old-school," said Eric, forgetting that they were supposed to be unseen; Simba and Adam ducked and dragged him down with them while the couple glanced around to see who had spoken. They gave up quickly; they were too interested in each other.

"Would you sing something for me?" said Quasi excitedly.

"Oh no, I couldn't…"

"Please?" Quasi smiled and took her other hand in his. Now they reminded Adam of himself and Belle sitting on that terrace.

Julea glanced around to make sure no-one was listening (the Casanovas managed to duck out of sight in time), hesitated, and said, "All right." She regarded Quasi very intently before picking her song.

"_And out there, living in the sun…_" She nodded at Quasi, encouraging him to join in, which he did, gleefully: "_Give me one day out there, all I ask is one to hold forever, Out there, where they all live unaware; What I'd give… What I'd dare… just to live one day out there!_"

Even though they were both singing quietly, you could tell her voice was great, sort of a cross between a JUdy Kuhn and a LEA Salonga without the years of training, and she harmonized effortlessly over Quasi's melody. They finished the chorus with big dopey grins on their faces.

"I'm really glad I met you, Julea," said Quasi.

"I'm really glad I met you, Quasi," she said, and kissed him. The Casanova's mouths fell open in unison.

But when she pulled back, something had clearly gone wrong. Quasi was staring at her, eyes wide as fried eggs, mouth stretched into an O. "Um, Quasi?"

He didn't move, and when she moved, his eyes didn't follow her; he stared straight ahead, unblinking. "Um…" said Julea, and glanced around, looking for help; the Casanovas weren't quick enough. "Hey! Were you three spying on us?"

Eric and Adam stood up quickly and reflexively began smoothing their hair; Simba inspected his Chippendale's cuffs. "Nope, no, not spying," they chorused.

"Well, whatever, but I think… I think I broke Quasi," she stammered, poking his shoulder and getting no response.

The Casanovas gathered around to inspect him. "Shit, I think you might have," said Eric.

"Oh, no…" Phoebus noticed the group standing around Quasimodo and went to grab Esmeralda, who had just finished her dance with Clopin and was now attempting to disentangle herself from his amorous grip. "That'll be all," said Phoebus authoritatively. Clopin sprang back in an overblown salute and went off in search of Will Turner, whom he had seen walk in and about whose straightness he simply could not be persuaded.

"What's up?" said Esmeralda.

Phoebus gestured to the table. "I think there's something wrong with Quasi." They joined hands and trotted over.

"What did you buffoons do to him?" Esmeralda snapped. "Quasi?" She took his face in her hands and tried to meet his gaze while Phoebus checked his pulse. The Casanovas snorted at her accusation.

"_We _didn't do anything," said Eric, and then all three stared expectantly at Julea, who went all tomatoey.

"I… kissed him," she admitted.

Phoebus and Esmeralda both gaped at her, and then at each other, and then at Quasi. "Right on, stud," said Phoebus.

"I think he's catatonic," said Adam unnecessarily.

"Nah, he's not catatonic," said Phoebus. "He's just processing. May I?" Esmeralda stood back. "Quasi. Hey, Quasi." He snapped his fingers by his ear. He patted his cheek. "Quasi. Quasi?" He slapped him across the face. The assembled company cried out in shock, Esmeralda most of all.

"Are you NUTS?"

But Quasi just coughed and glanced around. "Where did all of you come from? Where's Julea?"

"I'm here," she said, squeezing past Eric and Adam. Phoebus drew back. Julea took his place.

"Sorry about that," said Quasi sweetly, and kissed _her_. Phoebus, Esmeralda, and the Casanovas backed away.

"Well, I have to admit, you guys did a fine job," said Esmeralda once they were out of earshot. The Casanovas bowed. "Thank you, milady," they chorused.

It was a nice moment, so of course it was the one Gaston picked to make his entrance. By the time everyone caught on to his presence, he'd already found Belle on the dance floor, whirled her to face him, and wrapped his arms around her waist. She struggled. "Let me go, you brute!"

Her angry cries didn't go unnoticed for long. The band stopped playing (except the percussionist, who supplied a dark and atmospheric beat for the unfolding events) and Vlad called out "Eh! Escuse me! Is dere security in de ch'ouse?"

"The game is over, Belle!" Gaston bellowed in that spine-chilling baritone. "Stop resisting! It's getting boring."

"GET IT THROUGH YOUR HEAD, GASTON, I HATE YOU!" she cried, and slapped him. That only seemed to excite him, and he squeezed her tighter. Her dress rode up. Her expression went from enraged to terrified.

"Hey," shouted Adam. Then he grabbed Gaston's ponytail and wrenched it back. The shock was sudden enough that Gaston released Belle and stumbled a few steps before finding his feet.

"WHO DID THAT?"

"I did," said Adam, outwardly calm with a frisson of rage in his voice.

Gaston rolled his eyes and snarled. "What is it with you, you little twerp?" Belle ran to Adam's side. Adam curled his arm around her waist protectively. Gaston glanced between the two of them, realization dawning in his eyes. "Belle? …You're… with _him_?"

"Very happily so," she said definitively. Adam glowed with pride. "And from here on in, you _will_ leave us alone."

But Gaston was laughing. "I get it! I get it now!" He doubled over, slapping his knee. He was insane. "First an animal, then a kid! You're a furry and a cradle robber! No wonder you don't want me! I'm normal! You're a pervert!"

It was the insult that did it. Adam roared, but he wasn't Adam anymore… he was a big brown comet with a bushy tail that soared toward Gaston. And the minute Gaston realized that he was pinned to the floor under a mythical mammal with giant teeth and ever-ready claws, he became, once again, a gibbering, sputtering mess.

"_Get out_," the Beast growled, and he let Gaston up, and without his weapons about him, Gaston had no choice but to do just that. The room erupted in applause. Belle laced her fingers through the fur on his neck.

"So now you can just transform at will?" she asked, grinning.

"Seems like it."

"That's very good news."

The Wanderers struck up a new song with a celebratory tone. The men gathered around, awe shining in their faces, each begging for high-fives that nearly took their arms off. Simba and Nala felt humbled and kind of edgy in the presence of such a larger mammal. The Beast seemed kind of nervous, though, and eventually everyone realized that when he transformed, his clothes had torn dramatically to bits and were lying about on the dance floor, preventing him from transforming back. Lumière was tangled up with Fifi behind a potted palm, and when they finally managed to extricate him, he was much more interested in mourning the garments than hunting down replacements. Eventually, Cinderella perked up, like she had an idea. "Wait. Does anyone have a cocktail onion?"

"Oh. I do," said Hercules, holding up his martini glass, and fished it out confusedly when Cinderella held out her hand expectantly. She split it in two with her thumbnails, and then tilted her head back, shook the Veronica Lake wave out of the way, held the halves over her eyes, and squeezed out a few drops. "OW," she hissed, doubling over. Within seconds, Fairy Godmother had appeared in a burst of sparkles.

"Child! Whatever is the matter? Why the tears?"

"Don't worry, nothing's wrong," she said, smiling even while tears streamed freely from her eyes. "Cocktail onions. It's just, we have a fashion emergency." She gestured to where Lumière was shaking the tattered red shirt in the Beast's face.

"Ah spend a 'ole day up and down ze _Champs Élysée_ looking for zis colour," he was scolding. "Do you 'ave any idea 'ow 'ard eet ees to find _canneberges _at zis time of year?"

Cinderella and Belle brought Fairy G up to speed. When they were finally able to make her understand, she smiled and suggested she reconstruct the outfit with a magical fortification that would allow it to change size with its wearer, an idea that Belle found very stimulating, and within seconds, the Beast was clothed.

"One dance as-is?" Belle pleaded. The Beast consented, and then off they went, cutting a wake around the dance floor.

"For the record," said Esmeralda so only Nala could hear, "I did not say 'pervert'. I said 'freaky', and I meant it in a _good_ way."

* * *

On the bright side, I am still **trembling with anticipation **for **Lahiwe**'s sketches!

On the dark side of the force, I am also **trembling with awkwardness **because my computer is right now at the computer hospital, requiring me to post this on one of the campus computers. I made the screen all small, hoping I can block it with my torso from the prying eyes of the library. I'm also trying to tell myself "Oh, nobody's going to judge you for writing Fanfiction. Heck, they're not even going to notice what's on your computer screen!" And then I realize this thought holds not even a drop of water because, speaking for myself, I stare at people's computer screens compulsively and I'll judge them for being on _Myspace._ And I think to myself, "Either I'm a terrible, judgemental person, or [the more probable explanation] everyone else is as terrible and judgemental as me." Which would mean that about 10 people by now have been like "Oh, she's writing Fanfiction on a school library computer, how embarrassing for her." And I realize that in writing this treatise I'm totally just prolonging my exposure - I am open on the operating table of life - and so I should probably sign off...

But I hope you enjoy the chapter!

-Curly


	25. Good Night, Bad Night part III

Not wanting to be the lone downer, John Smith had managed to put on a fine show of congratulations towards Belle and Adam, and anyone who noticed any reservations in him chalked it up to an Anglo-Saxon stiff upper lip. In reality, he was going mad with jealousy. "Oh isn't that _nice_," sneered an angry voice in his head as he regarded Beauty and the Beast, and the smiling couples all around him. Kocoum, like him, was unclaimed, but he was somewhere talking tactics with Shang and Mulan and oh, what did he care, he was dead inside anyway, not to mention dead outside. And it was worse for him, John, anyway, because his one true love was right here in the room and… he made the mistake of looking over at her, still at the bar, still working on that third drink, getting ever cozier with Captain Jack Wanker. Not that he cared. Not that he cared that it looked like they were leaning in for a kiss…

The next thing Smith knew, he was by the bar, Sparrow was lying at his feet, and Pocahontas was yelling at him. Smith collected himself and turned to face her. "Could you start from the beginning? I'm afraid I was in a blind rage and missed everything you said."

Pocahontas huffed. Her hair was coming undone and her eyes were swimming and unfocussed. "You're a jackass."

"Fine," said Smith, and leaned in. She turned away. "Fine," he repeated, and kissed her cheek. When he turned to leave, Sparrow was blocking his path.

"If I may," he slurred, "she _did_ say she was single, mate. By the way, if you ever get tired of systematic genocide, do give me a call. I could use you for my crew. Here's my card."

"This is a napkin," said Smith (it was), and stormed out. Sparrow resumed his place on the barstool.

"Well, now that we're rid of _him…_"

"Go away," said Pocahontas dully.

"Come now, my peach…"

"Go away or I'll sic a raccoon on you."

Sparrow halted. "A rabid raccoon?"

"Worse. _Trained_." Sparrow bolted. Pocahontas slumped over the bar.

Meg had watched the whole thing from across the room, and she knew what needed to be done. She pecked Hercules on the cheek. "Can you get along without me for an indeterminate length of time?" He shrugged, and she went off to round up a girl posse. Half a minute later, they joined Pocahontas at the bar and circled her, forming a barricade against the curious onlookers. Pocahontas looked up at them with sad and drunk eyes. "I feel…" She hesitated.

"It's called a drunken rant," said Meg. "Let loose, honey."

And she did.

* * *

After what seemed like hours of trying to edge Evafta security out of the door, they finally complied, and Deminda slumped against the wall with relief. The two successive incidents of violence had pulled her rudely into sobriety. By chance, she'd ended up once again very close to Menken and Ross, who were watching her. "Rough night?" asked Rich Ross.

Deminda chuckled dryly. "Mr. Ross, I know I don't report directly to you, but, well, since you're here, could I have your permission to kick Gaston out of the competition? Everyone hates him, he's not going to win, he's causing me a _huge_ headache, and I have it on good authority he very nearly murdered Nala…"

Ross considered it. "Hm. What do you think, Alan?"

"Fat chance," said Menken. "He's the antagonist of this whole competition, and you're nowhere _near_ the climax yet."

"You mean it's going to get worse?" said Deminda dully.

"Indubitably."

"Fantastic." Deminda laughed. "Wow. It's hard to believe, only twenty minutes ago I was standing here happily pitching my Latina princess idea…" her smile slid off her face as the sentence came to an end. "…Shit."

Menken and Ross were sniggering. "It was a very good idea," said Ross diplomatically.

"I especially liked the part about Carlos Santana doing the music," said Menken. Deminda buried her face in her hands. "No! It really was a good idea," he emphasized, trying for gravity. "You were right, it would definitely 'attract the 35-to-50-year-old male demographic'…" And then Ross and Menken couldn't keep the giggles at bay. Deminda blushed and sighed.

* * *

It was hard to believe this was Pocahontas' first drunken rant – she was so good at it, no end in sight. "Because... and I'm having this," she slurred, grabbing at a shooter. Jasmine tsked.

"Oh, honey, I'm not so sure-"

"Can it, midriff. As I was saying, because of my extreme shupidity brought on by a chil'hood of privilege. I'm a big dumb ho." She took the shot (drink four) and shuddered all over. Then she started to gag.

"Ok, you're ok," said Meg, slipping her arm around her shoulder. "Do you want to come with me to the ladies?"

"I'm _fine_," said Pocahontas, shrugging her off. "I don't have to pee."

"That's all right, you don't have to."

"Good, because I... because I..." Heavily, she spun herself 180 degrees on the barstool, balanced her elbows on her knees, and began to spew. Meg cursed and cleared Pocahontas' hair away. The mess looked extraordinarily voluminous, which terrified Meg, until she realized that it only looked thus because it was born by a pair of bare men's feet. Both Meg and Pocahontas followed the line of his body up to his face.

"Not another one," muttered Pocahontas.

Meg tried an apologetic smile. "Sorry about this. Let me buy you a drink."

"Don't you think you've bought enough drinks tonight?" Kocoum scooped Pocahontas up into his arms, with Meg protesting weakly that she'd only had four, and strode out of the ballroom, leaving pukey footprints across the tiles.

"Sorry I'm so fat," Pocahontas muttered.

"What are you talking about?"

"Sorry I'm so heavy."

"...You're not."

"I'm a big fat fatty."

"Shh."

* * *

"No problem, Miss O'Kelly," an Evafta night manager was saying. "Everything will be taken care of."

"Thhhhhank you," Deminda breathed, her eyelids fluttering shut even as she spoke, and dragged herself off to where Julea was chatting coquettishly with Quasi. "Babysis, Imma head. You staying?"

"…Oh…" It was clear that Julea _didn't_ feel all that comfortable sticking around without Deminda there, but she hated to leave Quasi.

Quasi looked disappointed too, but he was selfless as ever. "Will I see you tomorrow night?" he asked, choosing his wording very carefully.

"You will," said Julea. "After you win," she added in a surprisingly sultry whisper. She winked.

Deminda was mildly scandalized. "Hoookay. I'm going to walk this way," she declared. "Nighty-night, all."

There was a chorus of good-nights from the remaining competitors, and a lot of grins in Julea's direction as she followed her sister out the door, followed by a lot of congratulatory slaps on Quasi's back. Quasi rolled his eyes – "Guys, we just met" – but he couldn't hide the giant smile on his face, and he sat in happy contemplation while everyone dispersed either to the bar or the floor.

Somewhere across the room, freed from the constraints of the terrible animation house that created her, Quasi's intended ladyfriend Madellaine was currently all over Jack Sparrow, vehemently agreeing to his every suggestion for their night's itinerary. Eh… you could take the girl out of the carnival, but you couldn't take the carnival out of the girl.

* * *

Smith charged down the hall like a man possessed. A young fan giggled and called his name as he passed; he snarled at her and immediately felt guilty. He kicked the first room service tray he came across, which made him feel a little better.

"How do I get this damn thing to work," he muttered under his breath as he turned on the TV in his hotel room. "Movies, 6… all right… Disney, 3… ok… theatrical releases, Disney channel, sneak peeks… Aha, 'Direct-to-video'. Where are you, you bastard… _there you are_. Ohhh yes, you little shitquel, come here, come to your papa's male protagonist… _Play_." He pressed down on the little "Enter" button as though triggering a doomsday device… and in his own mind, he was absolutely doing exactly that.

For John Smith's goal was to not only watch the sequel, but to… oh horror of horrors… _be ok with it_.

* * *

Back in his room (Aladdin was still out), Kocoum laid Pocahontas gently down on the bathroom floor and helped her get up over the toilet. "Do you still feel ill?"

"Yeah..." Kocoum pulled her hair back. She sat there for about five minutes just staring at the water, gagging occasionally, until finally she jammed a few fingers down her throat and brought up another load. Kocoum cried out in surprise.

"Wasn't gonna happen otherwise," she explained when she had finished.

"So?"

"I feel much better now." She did, he could tell, although she was still shitfaced.

"Here, use this extra toothbrush." Kocoum flushed the toilet and put the seat down for her to sit on.

She started to cry even as she brushed her teeth. He let her, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, and perched on the lip of the bathtub to wash his feet. She rinsed, spat, and wiped her eyes. "This is so embarrassing."

"Why did you let them liquor you up? You're not used to it, you know that."

"They didn't let me do anything. Or I didn't let them... I mean I needed to forget... about..."

"Did you?"

"No," she said irritably. She swayed and put a hand to her head.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." He took her by the hand and she leaned against him all the way across the room.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Because you need my help."

"But why are you being so nice to me?" She started to cry again. "I'm sorry I got you killed."

"That's... all right."

"No it's not." She snuggled down into the covers and kept a vice on Kocoum's wrist when he tried to pull away. "I'm really, really sorry. It makes me wish I never met John Smith."

"Really?"

"Well... if I never... met him... I would never... loved him... so it wouldn't matter." She started to cry again but did a good job of hiding it. "And then there would never have been a battle."

"I think there would definitely have been a battle... I probably would have led it. And we would have all died. Those 'gun' things... they _hurt_."

"Awwwwww, you're trying to make me feel better. It's ok. I'm a big fat bitch ho."

"I think you need to sleep."

"Aren't you going to lie down?"

"I'll sleep on the floor tonight."

"Nonono, I'll sleep on the floor." She threw the sheet back and tried to sit up, but Kocoum stopped her. "I won't let you sleep on the floor. 'S not my bed."

"I'll be fine."

"No. I won't take your bed away from you too." She was crying again. "I already took your life."

"Ok, ok, I'll lie down." He stretched tensely out next to her and tried to take his wrist back, but she wouldn't give it up. "Just stay on your side," he cautioned, "In case you need to vomit again."

"'S all good, I got it all up."

"Erm... good."

"Good night, Kocoum. You're so good. You're like my brother."

"Thank... thank you?"

"You're just... too... serious..."

And then she was asleep. Kocoum considered pulling his hand away, but she was still shuddering from having been crying, and he was overwhelmed with pity. She was good through and through, and he could easily write off her behavior on alcohol, that evil crap. Also he could take better care of her on the bed than on the floor. Also he, socially retarded though he was, could read between the lines well enough to tell that she really didn't need to feel abandoned at this point. Also he couldn't help but be a little bit proud that he was doing better by her right now than those English bastards (but of course he could also admit that anyone would act like them when faced with this sort of situation, even him).

He had to admit, there was a lot of hair in that bed right then. Maybe that's why she thought Smith was a better fit for her.

So Kocoum and Smith were both settled (in a manner of speaking) into their own rooms. Hercules and Shang, athlete and warrior that they were, were both determined to sleep apart from their ladies on the night before the final day of competition. However, upon seeing his ashen-faced roommate staring blankly at the blaring television, Hercules immediately turned on his heel and made off towards Meg's room – he was no good at dealing with sad drunks. Ariel and Jane had a proper Jacuzzi in their room, so Jane, who was aware of her roommate's proclivity for water, kindly offered to spend the night in Tarzan's room. Simba and Nala returned to the nice cozy thicket where they'd made their bed the night before, and Adam agreed to join Belle in her and Nala's much better-smelling room. Aladdin's reluctance to sleep in his room with scary Kocoum in the next bed was obvious to everyone, so Esmeralda and Mulan (who were sharing a 3-bed suite with Jasmine) graciously offered him the couch in their room, which Aladdin took with not enough reticence to satisfy Shang. (Phoebus, however, was about as worried about Aladdin as he was about Clopin.) Nobody would let Phoebus sleep in his own bed (obviously, what with his roommate's recent behaviour), but since Adam and Simba were both sleeping elsewhere, they offered him their room, and he was able to enjoy the privacy of his own room for basically the first time since he ditched his Captain's post.

While this grand room-swap conference was going on (in an Evafta board room, at two in the morning, drunk, and with Phoebus trying to map it out on the whiteboard like a military maneuver), Gaston was pounding on a hotel room door, the number of which Clayton had scrawled on his hand that morning. Slick-talking Hades let him in with a plea to keep his voice down, and it wasn't hard to see why: the room had only become steadily more trashed as the evening had progressed, and it seemed like Hades had only just been able to get everyone to sleep (or unconscious, whichever worked). The two beds were each occupied very awkwardly by one thin man and one large man: Frollo and Ratcliffe in one, Clayton and Jafar in the other, separated not by pillows as is the norm for reluctant bed mates, but magically-conjured barriers of literal fire. Shan Yu was passed out behind a cage of white lightning, having been sentenced to a "penalty box" (as it were) for his frequent fight-picking – he seemed to have been rendered unconscious, but really he'd just snarled himself to sleep. "It was really kinda cute," said Hades. Scar was literally muzzled and chained to a bedpost, one of Clayton's tranquilizer darts still lodged in his left shoulder. Ursula was snoozing in the bathtub. Hades didn't sleep.

"So what can I do for ya?" he whispered.

At full voice, Gaston stated, "I'm in."

"Ok, ok, appreciate the gusto, but Shhhh," implored Hades, as the room erupted in startled snores.

"I'm taking ownership of this operation," he continued, ignoring Hades completely. "I am embracing my villainy!"

Realizing he was still trapped, Shan Yu roared and shook the crackling bars, which woke up the men in the beds with starts, which caused them to burn themselves on the fire barriers. From the bathroom, Ursula began hollering, "What is going on out there? Somebody get in here and help me out of the bath! At once, you hear me?"

Hades turned bright orange with rage. "I SUPPOSE YOU'RE GONNA GET 'EM ALL QUIETED DOWN AGAIN, EH, MR. ENTHUSIASM?"

Gaston stepped away and raised his arms. "My fellow villains! Show me your plan!"

A wet thud in the bathroom alerted them all to the fact that Ursula had gotten herself out of the tub. Disgusting smacking noises of her suction cups against the tiles made everyone recoil away from the bathroom door, uniting the warring villains briefly in revulsion. Ursula finally made it into the bedroom, still sporting a ghastly overnight mask and curlers, smiling wide enough to swallow a king crab. "Thought you'd never ask, dear boy. Someone pop in the DVD."

That job fell to Hades, since everyone was either too enraged, too bewildered, or too drugged (on Scar's part) to do as she said, and after a few minutes Hades had vanished Shan Yu's cage and everyone was listening intently for the hundredth time as an Ocean's Eleven-style montage of the Evafta Hotel, narrated by Ursula herself, began to play. "It starts, as you can see, in a very specific shower tomorrow morning…"

* * *

Hey Guys! Guess what? Guess what? I'll tell you what: remember that cute little "contest" I "announced" in an earlier "chapter"? About whoever guessed the origin of Deminda O'Kelly's name got a cameo in a later chapter? Loyal reviewer **Larushka Evanovich** has DONE IT! So she's getting a cameo at some point! And it'll be really cool!

You'll see. You'll ALL see.

-Curly


	26. Day the Last

At about five in the morning, as the credits rolled for the fourth time, John Smith finally switched off the TV. The hand clutching the remote looked strangely clunky and poorly animated, as did the rest of him. One only needed to look in his eyes to see that everything that had once made him John Smith was gone… and what was sitting on the bed was none other than the wretched, simple-minded Sequel Smith.

Sequel Smith stood, inane grin playing around his lips, and stretched his crudely outlined limbs. "Ahhh, my first day as a bachelor," he whistled, and skipped out the door.

At the same time, a tear-stained John Rolfe made a final, gut-wrenching and yet somehow right-seeming decision after hours and hours of tortured soul-searching; and with that, he gathered his gumption and went off to do the right thing.

And it was on the staircase between their floors that they first glimpsed each other, and simultaneously called out, "You can have her!"

"Wait, what?" said Rolfe, some of his selfless heroic energy ebbing away in the face of this unexpected action.

"Listen, matey, I realized something tonight, during my repeat viewings of our little movie: I've been living in the past! It's a bright future, a new dawn, and I've got some conquering to do! Do you realize there are millions of people all over the world who haven't yet been exposed to the mindless colonization machine that is Britain at this time? Pocahontas is a great girl, but—"

"Wait, wait, what am I hearing?" interrupted Rolfe, holding up his hands to make him stop. "The whole reason for this drama was that you _weren't_ the tosser the sequel made you out to be!"

A strange conflicted look passed over Smith's face for a moment, but he picked up where he left off. "As I was _saying_, Pocahontas? Great girl. But the fact is, she just won't fit into my plans. I think she'd be happier with you, Rolfie boy, and the big house and the tobacco plantation and all those slaves… And to be honest, that whole Colours of the Wind thing? Just a phase, mate. You know how it is when you start to fall in with a bird, you pick up their ways? It wasn't just me: I was painting with all the colours of the wind; Pokey was memorizing coastlines. You couldn't possibly tell me that she's still doing _that_ after this many years."

Rolfe huffed. "You're telling me that when she traces the shape of every coastline we see across her palm, that's a habit she picked up from _YOU_?"

That same conflicted look rolled through Smith's eyes. "She still…?"

"And also: _Pokey_? REALLY?"

The chunky black outlines around Smith's face seemed to soften, but only for a second. "Well," he chirped, "Much luck to both of you. I'm going to check if the Continental Breakfast is open yet…" He brushed past Rolfe and continued down the staircase.

"Oh no you don't," said Rolfe, pursuing him. "I've just stayed up the whole night watching _your_ movie, trying to understand my wife's first relationship – do you have any idea how hard that is? – and I've come to the conclusion that she was happier with _you_. _Do you have any idea how hard THAT is_?"

"Must've been awful, mate, but unnecessary. After all, time doesn't move backward, does it? It moves forward! Pushes inland! Flows to the sea!"

"…Contradicting yourself there…"

"…Which is why I'VE spent the night watching _your_ movie! Makes more sense, doesn't it? You see, for all your fine education, seems like it's me what has all the logic!" Smith tapped his head and flashed a cheeky grin back at Rolfe before striding through the 19th-floor door and through to the elevator. Rolfe jogged after him.

"Allow me to remind you, sir, that I am her HUSBAND. YOU are the cuckolder. YOU have no business being the 'bigger man'."

"Bah! You're confusing me. Just take the damn girl," said Smith, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice. "Far away from here, if you please."

"How dare you?" said a sleep-heavy voice to their right. Jasmine had appeared at her doorway, peering at them through puffy eyes. "Standing around discussing _her_ feelings? She is not a gift to be given!"

Duly chastised, the Johns were silent until they reached the elevator bank. Smith was not pleased when Rolfe entered the car with him. "Hey!"

"We're not finished," said Rolfe assertively. "We're going to continue this conversation, taking the Arabian girl's criticisms to heart."

"Bollocks," Smith muttered. "I thought this was going to be easy."

"Well, so did I, but I'm just now realizing what a stupid thought that was."

Rolfe followed Smith around for the next solid half hour, trying and failing to make him see the light, but Sequel Smith was just too one-dimensional a character, and John Rolfe was barely more than that, and it eventually just devolved into useless bickering (because that's what they were designed to do).

* * *

About a half hour after Jasmine had rolled back into her bed, Mulan and Aladdin got up at the same time to use the bathroom. Well, since both of them had only had enough energy (and sobriety) to peel off their outfits before crawling into bed the night before, they were both clad in only their undergarments (Mulan's strapless bra was sliding rather precariously off her flattish chest), and there was a lot of awkward hemming and hawing and grabbing for bedsheets when they noticed each other. It wasn't long after that when Aladdin decided he'd rather brave Kocoum's steely wrath than suicidal levels of awkwardness in that room right now, and so he pulled his pants back on, slung his purple shirt around his shoulders, gathered up the rest of his clothes in a bundle, and trudged back to his room. By the time he got there, though, his terror had been entirely displaced by his hangover, and he barely even opened his eyes as he sprawled on top of his covers and drifted off.

* * *

Kocoum woke up before Pocahontas did. He checked to make sure she was, in fact, asleep and only asleep. Aladdin was sprawled out on his own bed, still in his clothes from the night before. Good luck to him, thought Kocoum, and perhaps he wouldn't remember the third person in the room if he could get her out in time. He brushed his teeth, which he hadn't remembered to do in the chaos of last night, and began to comb his hair. He meant to give it a quick once-over, but he got distracted, as he was wont to do, and by the time the short brush at the top was all pointing the right direction he realized that way too much time had passed.

Aladdin was awake, but he was playing dead with gusto. He was under the covers (where before he'd been on top of them), curled on his side (instead of on his back), facing the wall, eyes screwed up tight (instead of lolling half-open as usual), and breathing at a slow, controlled pace (Kocoum knew all too well that the kid snored like an elephant). He'd probably woken up, seen the girl in the room, and imagined the tomahawking he would get if Kocoum knew he knew. Or something like that. Anyway, he would be discreet, no doubt about that. Kocoum didn't know _exactly_ how he'd scared the patched pants off him, but he certainly had, which could turn out to be very useful.

He knelt by Pocahontas' head. She woke up with a gasp. She stared at him. Then she gasped again. Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she groaned.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been scalped."

Kocoum whistled in mild disbelief. "_That's_ racist."

"I know. I'm sorry." She got up as quickly as she could, which wasn't that quick because she was utterly wrecked. "I'll just get a glass of water and I'll be out of your hair, I promise."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

Pocahontas rolled her eyes again. "Nothing. It's perfect."

"Let me walk you back to your room."

"I'm all right." She opened the door and recoiled from the light of the hallway. "Or not."

"Come on." He took her elbow and began to walk with her. "Do you have your room key?"

She remembered tucking it into her bodice the night before and checked her boobs to see if it was still there. He turned away to preserve her modesty. "Shit," she muttered.

"Let's get you a new one."

They rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. Kocoum scanned the lobby when they stepped out, just in case there were unsavoury persons around, not really expecting any, but his eyes fell on the Johns, who had at some point taken to sulking in a pair of armchairs. Their bickering had ceased and they had settled into casting long, burning glares at one another. _All right,_ thought Kocoum, shifting into battle mode. _They're already distracted. We'll just use the terrain to keep a wide berth and-_

"Aw, _shit._" That was Pocahontas, for whom the sight of her two lovers in the same room was just too much. Her little outburst had caught their attention, and their eyes moved quickly between their girl and the guy she was with. Smith broke the silence first.

"Dammit, Pocahontas! Him too? _Really_?"

"And who's this bloke?" asked Rolfe.

"Oh, only her _ex-fiance_."

"I say!"

"Oh, fuck _all_ of you," Pocahontas shrieked. She made to turn back to the elevators, but changed course and raced toward the front desk, jumping the queue. "I need a key for one-nine-nine-six like now."

"Um..." the terrified receptionist held up a key shakily. Pocahontas snatched it and stormed off to the elevators, tripping over a loose piece of luggage. There was a moment of awkwardness as she jammed the "up" button and waited a little too long for the elevator. Then another moment while the doors refused to close and she glared at them while jamming the fruitless close-door button. Finally, she was gone, and they were just three very uncomfortable men in a lobby.

"If I may," said Kocoum, raising a finger, "all we did was sleep together."

And before he could figure out what he'd said wrong, John Rolfe punched him in the mouth.

Even though Kocoum was firmly in the right, and could have cleared up everything and maybe even won an apology just by giving an explanation, he was a warrior, and Rolfe wanted to fight. The Englishman was not particularly experienced, but he was angry and scrappy, so it took Kocoum longer than he'd anticipated to pin him. It was only when Rolfe was sufficiently calm and humiliated that he clarified, "I had her sleep in my bed so I could take care of her, because she was falling-down _drunk_."

"How _dare_ - oh."

"Ahahahahahaha!" Smith was laughing uncontrollably, one hand cradling his forehead, the other braced against an armchair. Rolfe clambered to his feet and glared at Smith while he straightened his clothes. "I suppose this is funny to you?"

"Absolutely!" crowed Smith.

"Gentlemen, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

The three men in question looked over the newly-arrived security guard, and then around the lobby. They might as well have been back in the arena, with all the attention on them at that moment. Rolfe smoothed his hair back self-consciously while Kocoum started the particular process of staring down the security guard and Smith just continued to laugh.

"Right, listen here, Mr…" Rolfe inclined his head to read the guard's name tag. "Mr. Ogden. We were having a simple disagreement. And now said disagreement is solved. Do you see? It was all a misunderstanding!"

"You chalk far too much up to misunderstandings," said Smith.

"Either be helpful or shut up," hissed Rolfe.

"Is that true, Mr. Kocoum?" said Ogden.

"It is."

"Because if I ever see you three at it again, it will mean your expulsion from the competition, the Evafta, and any future Disney-sanctioned events."

"What, me too?" Smith protested. "_I_ wasn't scrapping about on the floor."

"Yes, but you were involved in a violent disturbance with Captain Sparrow last night, were you not?"

"Oh, pish-posh, disturbance. Have you even _seen_ my film? Kocoum and I can tell you about disturbances," he retorted, throwing an amiable arm around Kocoum's giant shoulders.

Ogden gave no indication as to whether he'd seen Pocahontas. Instead, he glared. "Disney policy. And if I were you, I would clear the area."

"Ogden, my friend-"

"A good idea," interrupted Rolfe scorchingly.

Ogden stared Smith down until he relented. "All right," he said, rubbing his neck. Ogden shot them one last burning glare before leaving.

Kocoum glanced out a window to check the position of the sun. "You and I are due at breakfast," he said to Smith, and the two men headed towards the Ochre Room. Kocoum scrutinized Smith's oddly low-quality appearance. "Are you ill?"

Smith laughed, though it wasn't clear to either of them what the joke was. "People are going to be asking me that all day."

"Cock and bollocks," muttered Rolfe, and slouched back to his sad single room.

"Before any of you ask," said a very haggard-looking Deminda, "I tried to get Gaston kicked out. No soap, and I don't even have the strength to tell you why. However, if he _does_ turn up to breakfast, I've set a place for him over there." She pointed into the corner of the room, where there was a plate set on a child's desk (this morning, a fried egg forming the head and two round grapefruit slices for ears – Deminda's little club night pet project had quite stretched the pageant budget) (not that anyone could stomach anything more substantial this morning anyway, hung over as they were). There was also an itinerary already laid on his seat, so no-one would have to approach him. "I hope you all enjoyed your night last night…"

"Mph," said the group.

"…And I'm glad to report that this, your last day of competition, _should_ be a piece of cake compared to yesterday. Of course, that all depends on you. Not naming any names, but SOME of you…" She cast very obvious glares at Sequel Smith, Kocoum, and Adam. "SOME of you are starting to get a reputation among hotel security as troublemakers, which has made our insurance company very happy, what with all the money they're now able to twist out of us."

"Hey now," Phoebus interjected, "What's their issue with Adam? Isn't Gaston at fault for those incidents?" He paused in thought. "Smith and Kocoum I understand."

"Who asked you, cheese-breath?" Sequel Smith snapped.

Eyebrows rose all around the table. "No offence meant, limey," said Phoebus flatly.

"Geez," muttered Hercules, edging his chair away from his roommate.

"A-ny-way," said Deminda loudly, "Let's talk scheduling! Alright, everyone? Okay if we talk scheduling?"

Quasi nudged Phoebus and began to whisper something into his ear. Phoebus glanced at Smith and his eyes widened in realization.

"Clopin tells me that the dance is all polished and shiny. From here, we will adjourn to the theatre for a final spacing rehearsal, sound check, and dress rehearsal. Then we'll break until matinee time. The show begins at 2:00. Your calltime will be at 12:30 SHARP. Not 12:45, not 1 with a doctor's note, not 12:31. Twelve-thirty. Twelve-colon-three-zero. Yes? Good? Great. Your dance will be the opening act, after which you will each be individually scored. Then some more acts, then the five finalists will be announced…" A little quake of nerves rose around the table. "Yes, yes, it's all very exciting and slightly awkward and you're all winners and we've all grown so close in the past few days and that's really all that matters and we're all totes gonna hang out after this is over. The final event, the long-answer interview, is scheduled to begin at 8:00. As with two nights ago, formal attire is required, and so the call time will once again be 7:30. We hope all of you, and not just the finalists, will be in attendance.

"After that, you're all expected at the very swanky Disney after-party! Friends and significant others are also invited to attend. This will be a formal, black-tie event, and we've taken the liberty of arranging for tuxedos." All heads immediately snapped to Kocoum, whose eyes were already aflame. They each privately swore they could see two first-degree burns appearing on Deminda's face. "For those who want them," she added in a small voice, and the burning subsided.

"And I just wanted to say, on a personal note, that I just can't wait until I bid farewell to you all," she concluded, flashing a sweet smile as she rose to leave. The guys didn't catch her subtle dig and were mostly touched.

But before she reached the door, who should walk through it but the newly-enthused Gaston. "Ew," she said.

"Miss O'Kelly, a very good morning to you," Gaston bellowed, grabbing Deminda and sweeping her to the floor.

"Get off," said Deminda, unimpressed. Predictably, Gaston dropped her. Deminda grunted as she hit the floor and the rest of the men stood aggressively.

"Oh, stand down, for crying out loud," said Deminda after she'd scrambled to her feet. Nobody moved. "I'm talking to you," she added, waving her hand toward the breakfast table. The heroes looked taken aback, but they obligingly sat back down. Deminda looked Gaston over, wrinkling her nose. "Well now I need another shower," she muttered, and exited briskly.

Gaston looked kind of annoyed, mostly because Deminda's reaction was exactly what Ursula had predicted, and he was sure he'd prove her wrong. While he pondered this, the rest of the dudes filed out of the Ochre Room, leaving Gaston to his breakfast and itinerary.

* * *

This update took a while, eh? It's not so much that I'm hitting writer's block (touch wood); it's more that I'm coming up to an extremely climactic climax, and I'm writing with a lot more care now than I have been. Whereas before I could churn out ~50 pages in a couple of days, just freewriting and goofing around, now I'm going in two- or three-page fits, and I'm planning ahead wayyy more. I've got note pages all over my room with timelines and flow charts and shit. I mean, you don't see much complexity in this chapter - it's really just another morning-after debrief - but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to post it until the next (WAY more complicated) chapter was pretty much in the can, because I had to be sure. You know?

I also wanted to thank all those who take the time to review. I think Chapter 25 had a record (six) - not that the number matters. I love feeling like I have a relationship with my readers and that I'm sharing the writing experience with others. I also love having the freedom to share and talk about something so personal - the few times I've asked meatspace friends to read my writing, it's always gone horrible. Not necessarily because they tore it to shreds - I mean, that's usually what I'm looking for - but because it's tantamount to taking all my clothes off and asking them to stare at my naked body. Or like confessing my murderous past and expecting them to remain friends with me. And then I realize I don't actually know what my writing sounds like at all in someone else's head, and then I realize I can't actually know how people hear my spoken language, and then I realize that even though I think I know who I am I have no idea how other people perceive me because they're never going to tell me honestly, and when they do it's always so far off-base from what I'd imagined that I feel like everything else in my life must be a lie and...

Whoa. Let me start again: Hey guys! Review please!

-Curly


	27. Now, Sing

Once Deminda had sufficiently scrubbed off the sticky feeling of Gaston, she began to relax a little. She hadn't been able to take a "me-time" during the day like this for quite some time, and the Evafta shower was SO much better than her shitty low-flow at home. So she started to sing. And of course, what's a girl who grew up as a teenager in the 90s going to pick as her go-to song?

No, not _Part of Your World_:

"If I… should stay… I would only be in… your waaaaaaaaaay!"

She didn't have a great singing voice, not like her little sister, but there's a little-known universal truth that the better the shower, the awesomer you sound, and this was a very, very good shower.

"So I'll go… but I know… I'll be with you every step of… the waaaaaaaaay!"

A smile crept over her face. She sounded awesome.

"And IIIIIIIIIIII will always love youuuuuuu, I will always love youuuuuuuuu…"

Meanwhile, right on schedule, housekeeping arrived at Deminda's door, but Deminda was already deep into the "Bittersweet memories" verse and couldn't hear the knock. The unassuming housekeeper had barely nudged the door open when suddenly, coils of chains pinned her limbs together and she was teleported right out of the corridor.

"Excellently done," said the newly-manifested Ursula from her motor chair.

"What can I say, it's a gift," said Hades, and they scooted around the abandoned cleaning cart into Deminda's bedroom. Ursula parked herself in front of the bathroom door and opened her portable potion cooler while Hades waved his hands and opened a window through which they could see Deminda (from the neck-up, of course, because they were still Disney characters). Ursula's best evildoing grin crept over her face as she started to chant:

"_Beluga sevruga, Come winds of the Caspian Sea!_

"_Larengyx, Glaucitis et max Laryngitis, La voce to me!_

"Now, **sing**."

"AND IIIIIIIIIEEEEIIII WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUUU IIIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAAAALWAAAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUU IIIIIIIIIIII WILL AAAAALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUU IIII WILL AAAAAAAAALways love a-YOUUUUUUUUUU…"

And the whole time Deminda was just thinking "Hell yeah! My voice sounds awesome!" And then, she thought, "It's more than I ever thought I could achieve! It sounds bigger than myself!" And then she thought "It feels like my voice is _detaching from my larynx and trying to climb up out of my throat_, is that even possible?" And then suddenly she was choking on her own voice, and gagging, but there was not a single choking or gagging sound to be heard because she no longer had command over her voice, or any voice, and all that she had was breath.

But her voice was still relentlessly singing. "I will always love a-YOUUUUUUUU, I will always… loooooooove… youuuuuuuuu… darling, I love you…" And suddenly the warmth in her throat rose up into her mouth, and through her lips, and the small glowing ball of song floated right through the falling water and billowing steam, over the shower curtain rod, and – Deminda ripped the curtain aside – right into the waiting hands of Ursula the Sea-Witch. "I'll always, I will always love… youuuu," it sighed as it slid into a shell clutched in Ursula's red-taloned fingers.

_NO! _Deminda silent-screamed, and then the bathroom disappeared around her as she was sucked through space and time.

"Forgive my tardiness."

Deminda's oddly syrupy voice boomed across the auditorium. Every eye in the room – the guys marking their dance, Clopin shrieking his praise, the technicians up in the flies – turned toward their Executive Director, who was posing for them at the back of the house. She was dressed unlike anyone had ever seen her dressed before: chestnut hair perfectly coiffed in thick, sultry waves; a black satin A-line dress with a low neckline; long sleeves that tapered to points over her middle fingers; and an hourglass midsection that suggested the use of some sort of corset. The knee-length circle skirt swished around her legs as she slinked down the aisle on black patent-leather platform pumps.

"Deminda, I got a list o' questions as long as my arm," said the tech director, rushing in from the wings. Deminda's burgundy lips stretched in a condescending smile.

"Just do your best, dear. I trust you implicitly."

The TD looked like he was about to protest, but he just rolled his eyes and walked away. Deminda smiled at the princes, who all looked uniformly bemused (except for Gaston, who was just grinning).

"Were we all supposed to dress up?" said Hercules nervously.

"Nonsense, young man. Now don't let me interrupt. I'm just _dying_ to see what you're up to." She took a seat in the front row, skirt fanning out dramatically, and waited patiently for them to resume what they'd been doing. Of course, the guys stayed rooted. It was the first time they'd ever seen Deminda sit down and say nothing, and it was a very strange sight. (Not to mention her insane appearance – seriously, it had been like half an hour tops since they'd seen her, when the hell did she find the time to curl her hair and apply a full face of makeup?)

Clopin was the one who got them back on track. "From the top, _mes bonhommes_, and try to ignore the succubus in the room." The guys resumed their opening positions. "And by the way," he whispered to Deminda before giving the signal to start the music, "Whoever you're trying to impress, is it really worth changing yourself for him?"

If he'd said that to the _real_ Deminda, she would have nearly fallen over backwards from the shock of hearing Clopin say something genuine and rational. _This_ Deminda just sat there and smiled.

The dance was still fairly awful-looking, but that was fine, since it _was_ a dress rehearsal (i.e. _expected_ to look awful) and they _were_ still tired and full of eggs, so no-one felt any need to add extra run-throughs. But just as Clopin was dismissing them, the doors to the auditorium burst open and nine very irate-looking Disney chicks charged down the aisle.

Before anyone could ask what was going on, Jasmine went right up to Deminda and said, "There are villains at the breakfast buffet."


	28. Villains at the Breakfast Buffet

"What do you _mean_, there are villains at the breakfast buffet?"

But Aladdin's question was mostly rhetorical. Jasmine had been very clear. There were villains in the hotel; more specifically, at the breakfast buffet. It explained why the ladies looked so hotheaded.

"Which villains?" the guys chorused.

"All of them," the ladies replied.

"Well, not him," said Belle, gesturing toward Gaston. "He was _here_."

"Not Ursula," said Ariel in response to Eric's pointed look. "Not that I could see."

Deminda giggled to herself.

"What?" said Jasmine.

Deminda rose from her chair and ascended the steps to the stage. "Ladies, gentlemen, please, don't panic. Don't be afraid."

"Deminda, listen." Phoebus expertly edged in beside her so they could converse privately despite their current position at center-stage. "When we agreed to participate, Disney assured us that there would be no dangerous surprises. I think allowing career criminals – _homicidal lunatics _– in a crowded hotel definitely counts as a _dangerous surprise_."

Deminda flashed him her best Sarah Palin smile. "_Dangerous_, good Captain? I don't follow." Phoebus was dumbstruck. "I'm sure you're familiar with the Disney Animated Character Licensing Charter?"

Everyone else blushed.

"How silly of you," she continued, smile growing wider. "Being Disney characters yourselves, you would think you'd familiarize yourselves with the one document that governs your lives… but I suppose I should expect nothing less from _protagonists_," she smirked, eyes on her iPhone. "What are _rules_ and _laws_ to you people when you have things like _luck_ and _youth _and _good bodies _and… Oh, here we go. Belle, dear, would you read that aloud? Starting from this section."

Belle's eyes were shiny and her hair was coming undone, two sure signs of anger. She took the phone with a tense hand, glaring at Deminda. " 'All Antagonists, Villains, and unresolved Rivals are forbidden from being present in the same municipality as their Protagonist.' All right, so get rid of them!"

But Deminda just scrolled to another section and passed it back to her. "'This does not apply to scripted scenarios…' This isn't scripted!"

"Keep reading," said Deminda with an edge of danger to her voice. Belle complied, wary.

"'Nor does this apply to merchandising, advertising, or Disney-sanctioned events such as conventions, award shows, or _Mr. Disney Renaissance pageants?_'" Belle raised the iPhone above her head. "This is doctored!"

"But I'm afraid not!" said Deminda gleefully, easily plucking the phone from tiny little Belle's hand. "And if you like, I can call up the President of Disney Consumer Products to confirm it… although, you must know that your refusal to comply with the terms in the Charter would qualify as a resignation from the Disney Princesses."

Belle fell silent – she secretly really liked appearing on lunch boxes – and fell back into line with the rest of the girls.

"No," said Quasi firmly. "It's not right. If getting merchandized means closing my eyes to injustice, I'm sorry, but I will not be a part of it. _I_ resign."

There was a chorus of affirmation from the guys, but Deminda spoke directly to Quasi. "That's really too bad. You're on track to win, you know, and Julea was so looking forward to seeing that. A win like this would be a very _attractive_ trait…" Her eyes seemed to say, _and we both know how few attractive traits you posses_. Quasi's face went from determined to panicked. Deminda's eyes flashed triumphantly. "Listen. I promise, there won't be any trouble. They're not even here for you. They're self-producing a compilation CD – I believe it's called _Devilish Disco: Disney Villains Salute the 70s_ – and Disney agreed to give them a performance slot to promote it. That's all. So can we _please_ agree to be civil?"

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" shrieked Pocahontas. Deminda gasped, affronted, but she wasn't talking to Deminda: she was talking to Sequel Smith. All eyes bounced between them.

"What do you mean, what did I do?" said Sequel Smith defensively. Pocahontas strode up to him, grabbed his hand, and held it against hers.

"Your animation. It's _changed_."

There was a chorus of _ohhhhhh_ from the men who had been trying for the whole morning to figure out what was weird about Smith.

"So what?" said Smith. "Felt like a change."

There was genuine fear in Pocahontas' eyes. "It's _hideous,_" she spat.

"Aw, well, I'm actually glad you think so. That was the idea, you know." Everyone filed into the audience to watch their confrontation.

"You mean you _did_ this to yourself?"

"It wasn't that hard," said Smith. "I've been through much harder. Can't think of any right now… Oh, wait, I totally can: taking a bullet!"

"What did you do?" Pocahontas repeated intensely.

"What do you think I did?"

"You're terribly drawn," she said. "You're crass, you're brainless…"

Quasi nudged Phoebus enthusiastically.

"…You sequelled yourself, didn't you?"

"I KNEW it!" said Quasi.

"Oh, no," said Phoebus pityingly. Everyone else in the room reacted with dismay, some more offended than others.

"All right, maybe I did," said Sequel Smith.

"WHY?"

"Why? Really? You're asking me why?" As he got more worked up, the lines around his face began to intermittently soften, making him appear to be glimmering. It was strangely beautiful and terrible to watch. "Well, off the top of my head, I would say I did it for _you_."

Pocahontas was furious, and in her fury, grew very still. "So what exactly happened to _my_ John Smith?"

Sequel Smith laughed at that. "_Your_ John Smith? How many Johns can you possess, woman? Well, to answer your question, he's gone, I suppose. I certainly don't want him back."

Pocahontas was trembling, like she was about to explode.

"And, well, I figured this would make it easy for you."

She exploded. "EASY?" She lunged for Sequel Smith and seized the front of his shirt. "You killed the man I loved, and you did it to _make my life easy_? _Fuck_ you." They struggled. It took all of his strength to keep her at arms' length. Everyone was like, _Should we do something_?

"_He… __wanted__… to die!_" Sequel Smith yelled, and with one final shove, he managed to put some distance between himself and Pocahontas, where she remained rooted.

"Is that true?"

No-one said a word.

"Oh," Pocahontas whispered. Then she bolted from the theatre, followed by the rest of the girl posse.

"My, my," Deminda smarmed, peering over the top of her cat-eye glasses. "That was dramatic."

"Oh, fuck off, Deminda," said Eric – Deminda's weird uncharacteristic attitude seemed to be bugging him the most. Deminda just laughed.

* * *

The REAL Deminda woke up in some creepy basement storage room. She felt sick. There was no indication as to how long she'd been asleep (or unconscious). Well, she was still wet and naked, so probably not that long.

Because she'd been in the shower… She'd been teleported _out_ of the shower, to this place… Whitney Houston… Ursula…

"F-K!" she silent-screamed. Oh, well, at least she still had consonants. "-T -ST - ST- -V- C-S-TS," she tried. Well, _certain_ consonants. "C-T- C-S-TS."

Without moving, she quietly counted her limbs and digits and deduced she wasn't injured. She sat up. The floor was filthy. She was shackled to the wall behind her by both wrists and both ankles. They seemed to be regular shackles and not magic shackles, which, given the amount of magical types in the hotel right now, was at least a small comfort.

Shackled to the wall perpendicular to hers was an Evafta chambermaid – you could tell by her _clothes_, Deminda thought enviously – staring at her knees and muttering angrily in Patois (cursing a blue streak, Deminda guessed, because that's totally what she'd be doing if she could). Sensing Deminda's eyes on her, the chambermaid looked her over and sighed with grim sympathy.

"Oh, girl. Where they took you from?"

"TH- SH-" _(The shower)_, Deminda tried.

"What? You think we should whisper?" she said nervously, dropping her voice.

Deminda shook her head. "TH- T-K - V-C-" _(They took my voice)_. She tried to get her point across by gesturing, but it was very difficult to mime a singing ball of light crawling out one's throat and floating from one's mouth, and the rattling chains were very distracting. (Also distracting, she realized, were her bare boobs, probably.) The chambermaid was shaking her head in confusion. So Deminda tried it the Ariel way: pointing to her throat and looking sad.

"You got no voice? Oh, no, poor child. Was it cancer?"

Deminda briefly considered writing out a message in the dust on the floor, but the one swinging bulb didn't give off nearly enough light. Instead, Deminda crawled closer to the chambermaid, who responded in kind and immediately enveloped Deminda in a hug. Deminda stiffened at first – mostly because she was buck naked, but also because she didn't want to get too emotional to think clearly – but hot damn, this was a nice hug.

"They took you right outta the shower? That man… he didn't hurt you, did he?" Deminda shook her head. "Oh, thank God… Oh! I know you! You that pageant lady, ya?"

Deminda nodded.

"You could talk yesterday, no? Ah! …They took your voice!"

Deminda nodded vigorously.

"Oh, I wish I had some clothes for you, you must be cold…" Deminda laughed silently and shrugged. "Oh! I just remember, me, I'm wearing bike shorts and a camisole under this!" She immediately went for the buttons on her maid's uniform dress.

_Yes!_ Deminda thought. _God love middle-aged ladies and their layers…_

Of course, they both quickly realized that to get the dress off would require somehow breaking the chains, which they would have done already if they could. The chambermaid was very sorry. "Me name Lisa, by the way," she remembered.

_LISA,_ Deminda mouthed. "-S-." Then she smudged a big "D" into the dust on the floor and pointed to herself. _Me Tarzan. You Jane._

"We gon be ok, D."

* * *

I'm going to tell you a secret: I could have totally amalgamated the last two chapters, but Jasmine's "There are villains at the breakfast buffet" was just so DUN-DUN-DUN and cliffhangery that I couldn't resist. Hey! I'm a Fanfiction writer, not Leo Freaking Tolstoy! I'm beholden to no standards of integrity or dignity but my own, which, need I remind you, are about on par with someone who would devote most of her free time to writing smut fiction about animated characters from children's movies!

Please review, I love it. I eat up reviews like I eat up Nutella: with my fingers, straight out of the jar. Yumma-yumma-yumma. If you review, I'll write you a sensual scene in which the contestant of your choice smears a little Nutella on your shoulder and licks it off while singing "Right from the moment when I met you, saw you, I said 'You're gorgeous' and I fell..." in a very hushed and throaty tone. (Apologies to any straight dudes who read this story [HA! HA! AS IF!].) (I mean, if there ARE any straight dudes reading this story... Hi! Welcome! I love it when straight dudes can keep up when I start going on about Disney crap, which I do, often, in public.) (But still, I'm not writing any sensual scenes with Disney characters for straight dudes. You guys can take care of yourselves.) (NO! I DIDN'T MEAN IT LIKE THAT!)


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